


Getting Over Saving the World

by Nattish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:06:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 44,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/pseuds/Nattish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry was a hero, but now he’s not. Unable to cope with his peaceful, mundane life, he acts out with violence, vandalism, and hedonistic behaviors. He is sentenced to community service for his crimes, and there he finds a reason to move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting Over Saving the World

 

 

**1.**

 

  
JANUARY 2006

“Push, Hermione! Come on, you can do it!”

“Ron, don’t be silly, it’s just a contrac—”

“I don’t want to hear any complaints! You wanted to do this naturally, now push!”

“ _Ronald!_ ” Mrs. Weasley had appeared in the doorway with one hand on her hip and the other clutching a small bowl. “It’s not time for that yet. Give Hermione some space.”

Ron retreated from his old bed, which was now covered in sterilized sheets and Hermione’s very pregnant form. He huddled in the window seat next to Harry, who gave his friend what he hoped was a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“The mediwizard is on his way,” Mrs. Weasley said, brushing sweat and frizz off Hermione’s forehead. “I brought you those ice chips in the meantime.”

“Are you sure she can’t have tea or something?” Ron interjected. “Or maybe a hippogriff-strength tranquilizer?”

Hermione smiled shakily. “I’ll be just fine. Why don’t you and Harry get some fresh air while we’re waiting?”

“But I think I should—”

“I think Hermione could use some flowers for her bedside,” Mrs. Weasley said breezily. “Wouldn’t that make you feel better, dear?”

Hermione nodded in agreement, and then squeezed her eyes shut.

Before Ron could swoop in, Harry steered him out of the room and down the many flights of uneven stairs at the Burrow. Percy passed them at the foot of the staircase, stopping to shake Ron’s hand. When they went through the kitchen, George and his toddler, Fred, were tinkering with something under a tarp, which emitted a foul odor.

Ron stuck out a finger. “I’m warning you two, no pranks today.”

It was a cold, clear January morning. Rather nice for a fly about, if you asked Harry. But he stayed on task with Ron, and in the gardens they found ferns, and scraggly leafy things, and only a couple winter-blooming flowers.

“Hope Hermione’s not upset about all the visitors today. She had wanted a quiet birth,” Ron said, yanking out plants at random.

“She’d have an easier time of that in Diagon Alley than at the Burrow.”

“Don’t know why she won’t do this at the hospital like a normal witch. Mum said a magical birth is like letting go of a lot of stress at once.”

“Hermione is a stubborn girl, but she knows what’s best for her.”

“I’m glad you could make it out, though. You spend so much time cooped up at that castle, and with bloody Malfoy for company—of all people! Don’t know how you do it.” He looked at his flower-and-fern bundle, troubled, and then turned to Harry. “Are you going to be all right if we toast champagne after the baby’s born?”

“Oh. Well. I’m doing all right these days,” Harry could say honestly. “Don’t worry.”

“Only if you’re sure. Let me know if you change your mind. Oh, don’t look now! She’s finally shown up.”

A slender silhouette was spiraling in over the orchard. Even if Harry hadn’t recognized the long red hair and pale skin from afar, he’d know that broomstick: _the Black Jet_. It was the speediest broom in creation and the last gift he’d ever given her.

“Oy!” Ron waved Ginny into the garden, and she landed with such momentum that she plowed into her brother, embracing him. “It’s been too long,” he said. “Can’t pry yourself away from the pitch to visit your family?”

“Not if you want a Quidditch Cup in said family, and I know you do. Where’s Hermione? I’m so excited to see her.”

“Upstairs, but don’t tell her to push yet. And certainly don’t try to help by squeezing her belly. She’ll clobber you.”

Ginny threw back her head and laughed. It was a really nice to see. When she noticed Harry, her smile faded. “This came for you,” she said, and tossed him a small, dense package. Before Harry could respond, she was trudging toward the house.

“Well, that wasn’t at all awkward,” Ron joked. “Come on, let’s bring up these awful flowers before Mum tries to lock me out again.”

“I’ll be right up. I’m going to have a look at this first.”

Harry sat on a stone bench under a tree and turned the bundle over. He found a note attached.

 

_For the eyes of Harry James Potter only. All those who snoop will fail at their endeavor and will also be cursed to itch on their unmentionables for 24 hours.  
_

Harry couldn’t recall whether Ginny was walking funny or not. He read on:

 

_Mr. Potter,_

_Given the completion of your mandated therapy hours, your tremendous community service evaluations, and your letters of recommendation from Hogwarts Headmistress Minerva McGonagall and Dr. Richard Bullstaff, the Ministry has concluded that your probation period is officially terminated._

_Enclosed are copies of your psychological notes and records, as requested._   
_Best wishes,_

_Jebediah Langley_   
_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_   
_Ministry of Magic  
_

The enclosed notes were mostly illegible, but brought back clear memories for Harry: from the day he refused to look the doctor in the eye until the day Harry last shook his hand, grateful for his care.

Before Harry could delve in, there was a shriek. He leapt up. The sound had come from upstairs. He stuffed the notes into his jacket, and barrelled into the Burrow. He’d missed out on a lot with Ron and Hermione this year, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t beside them to greet their daughter into the world.

\---

 

SEVEN MONTHS EARLIER

He stood on top of the little brick building, the one with the cafe on bottom and the bookstore on top. The pretty owner fancied him, so she didn’t mind him climbing up the fire escape when he was finished at the pubs to sleep on the roof. She had hinted that there was plenty of room for him inside, in the loft where she slept, and honestly he’d been tempted; but he didn’t want to test his wife any more than he already had.

He stared down at the bakery, the one with the friendly baker with the heavy arms and the teenaged daughter, who always winked and slipped him an extra treat. This morning it had been an apricot scone.

His stomach churned at the thought of sweets. Perhaps too much to drink. Most definitely too much to drink.

A round, yeasty scent was beginning to whirl into the daybreak sky, and that scent was inoffensive. He inhaled, drawing in the air as if he could pull a loaf out of the oven if he desired it enough. He touched the wand in his pocket, amused at the idea of bringing the lot of breads and cakes dancing out under the nose of the confused baker.

 _No_ , he thought, letting go of the wand. That sort of thing was pointless.

But this was not.

His hand twitched.

The bakery went up in flames.

The screaming came first. Then, in rapid succession, came the stampeding of feet, the shattering of ceramic and glass, and the loving shouts of father to daughter. There were fat fingers pulling on a window— _locked—_ and the scraping of smaller hands, feeling for the other window— _locked—_ then along the wall to the door— _stuck somehow_. Next came the desperation: the coughing, the gagging, the wrenching of door knobs and the yanking of a fire extinguisher that simply wouldn’t budge.

“ _Heeeeeeelp_ ,” the girl cried, barely making a sound, for the smoke was stiflingly thick, like sludge.

In the distance, a fire engine sang. Neighbors were gathering. He knew he could wait no longer.

He clambered down the fire escape, only to sprint for the burning building. Ironic, but no time to laugh. He was gathering speed, bracing himself for the impact of door to shoulder, closing his eyes so the smoke didn’t blind him—and then it hit him. Not the bakery door. A force like a sack of stones pummeled him from one side. It threw him towards an alleyway, where he knocked his head against the wall and crumpled on the ground. His spectacles shattered.

He pulled himself up on the bricks. Somehow, the bricks were rocking back and forth. No, the whole world was rocking. And he had to concentrate to keep his whiskey down.

No matter. Fire was still blazing. He staggered towards it.

“Not so fast, Potter,” a blurry man said.

There was a wand on his chest. No, there were six wands on his chest. No, five of the wands were imaginary. He moved around all of them. The fire...those people needed his help....

“I said not so fast,” the man repeated. “You done enough damage today. Don’t wanna go hurtin’ yourself, too.”

The whiskey threatened another visit. He pushed it back down, as the six wands pushed him back down.

From this position, he saw flames licking the sky. And birds. No, those were cloaks flapping on broomsticks. The wizards who were also on the broomsticks began to pour a shimmering liquid from their wands. It was like water, but smarter, simply swallowing the flames.

Before his vision narrowed, he saw four men pushing the baker away on a Muggle stretcher, that burly, dough-beating arm hanging limp off the side.

His eyes fell shut, but he could still make out the baker’s daughter, sobbing, “Please breathe, Daddy! Oh God, please breath!”

\---

“Mr. Potter?”

“ _What?_ ”

The doctor lurched back in his chair. Harry supposed he’d been gruff. It was difficult to feign etiquette with the baker’s daughter still crying in his head.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “Shall we take a break?”

“Look, I don’t want to waste your time. I didn’t want to talk yesterday and I don’t want to talk today. Why don’t we just part ways?”

“Unfortunately, Mr. Potter, the Ministry hasn’t given you the option to walk away. As far as _my_ ability to leave, well...I suppose I _could_ if I wanted to return to my wife tonight unemployed.”

Harry glowered at the graying, soft-spoken, sweater-vested man, trying hard to find something to hate about him. But what he really hated was having no say in his fate.

“The way I see it is we have some time together,” the doctor said, looking at the rotating globe of stars and planets on the coffee table. It was a wizarding calendar, the only interesting thing in this office. “Three weeks, to be exact. We have no obligations other than passing that time. Why don’t we pass it by analyzing any hang-ups you think you might have? For no reason other than that’s my specialty.”

“Doctor Bullstaff—”

“Please, call me Dick.”

Harry couldn’t bear to laugh. “Your name is Dick Bullstaff?”

“Or Richard, if you prefer.”

Harry sighed. “No, look, Doctor—I’m Harry Potter. I’ve been dealing with these _hang-ups_ you want me to talk about my entire life. Where would you suggest I begin?”

“Why don’t you begin with why you were on that roof Saturday morning?”

“I dunno. I was drunk?”

“That’s a start. Do you often find yourself intoxicated?”

That question set Harry’s teeth on edge. It made him aware of the way his hands quaked in his lap, the way his head ached as if it had been fitted with a vise, and the unquenchable desire he had for a bottle of good, hard anything.

He couldn’t do this. He made for the door.

“Wait, Mr. Potter—”

“Bugger off, Dick,” he said, and slunk off to his hospital room.

Three days and two nights in that room, and finally Ron came. He looked a little spent and a lot irritated at what he had come to provide.

“Here are some robes, a couple books, some pies from mum, and this.” He tossed a bottle of amber liquid onto the bed. Harry snatched it up. “I’m in deep shit if Hermione or my boss finds out about this, so be careful. How’s your head?”

“Feels like Hagrid sat on it,” Harry said, putting the bottle to his lips. His muscles melted with the first deep swallow. “And why would old Robards care?”

“Grow up, Harry, you know why. Do you know how many strings I had to pull with him to get in here? I’m your official warden now; so, like it or not, that’s the last of that stuff you’re getting out of me, since my shift begins now.”

The clock chimed, as if on cue. A wooden mediwitch popped out, and rung a bell that made Harry’s temples throb.

“Oh, and Ginny wants you to write her,” Ron said, plopping into a chair in the corner. He didn’t speak to Harry for a couple days.

\---

Once Harry got over his concussion, he was questioned, prodded, and accused by seemingly every bureaucrat in the Ministry (each with a special floating notepad with a special floating quill), none of whom bothered to hide their contempt towards him.

 _Potter’s a drunk_ , they wrote. _Even smells of it._

 _Potter’s a nutter,_ they wrote. _He should be locked in the Janus Thickey Ward permanently._

_Potter’s bored and attention-needy. He’s the Man-Child Who Lived!_

At least Dick Bullstaff reserved judgement. But with a name like that, Harry supposed he had to. He found himself eager to attend their meetings, if only to get away from all the officials (not to mention Ron’s brooding).

“Perhaps you can help me understand something,” the doctor was saying in his tiny beige office. “Why were you on the Muggle side of London to begin with? My notes tell me that because of prior transgressions you are restricted from access to that region without Ministry permission.”

“Seems I got lost.”

“You got lost?” he asked, sober as ever.

“Yeah. There was a parade that day, you see. And I thought for sure the baton twirler was a funny witch of some sort. She led me right out of Diagon Alley and into the heart of Muggle London.”

The doctor uncrossed his legs and tapped the ink off his quill. “See you tomorrow, same time?”

Harry knew Ron would be extra broody if he came back from the shrink early. “Look, I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I’m not myself right now. But I’m not ready to talk.”

“I’ll be here when you are ready,” he said, inclining his head. It must have been his version of a smile. “But, please, stay as long as you like.”

\---

  
Ron had let up on his silent treatment. They were in the middle of throwing paper airplanes back and forth, cackling like schoolboys, when another official knocked on the door.

“Harry Potter,” she said blandly, clicking into the room with her court shoes. “I’ve been sent from my department to—”

“—to gather information regarding the events of last Saturday. I know, I’ve been answering the same questions all week.” Harry did not look up from his plane. It needed a wing adjustment.

The woman sniffed. “Yes, well. I’m not here to ask questions, as much as— _oh!_ Auror Weasley, I didn’t see you there....”

When her tone went from business to simpering, Harry looked up. The witch in front of him didn’t look a day over twenty, and she was smiling at Ron from between a canopy of false eyelashes and a bosom just as ample.

Harry supposed it was not strange. Ron had become as fit as one might expect a top Auror to be. And his boyish immaturity had evolved into something passing for charm. Harry, on the other hand, was perpetually irritated, sinewy, and had messy, overgrown hair. (Perhaps that last one was nothing new.) Still, he was not amused to be playing second fiddle to Ron. He threw the airplane between them.

The official jumped, and stammered, “I came to personally deliver your hearing summons to ensure there is no confusion.”

Harry snatched the scroll, and she pressed her painted, pink lips into a line. “Any further questions?” she asked.

“No.”

“I have one,” Ron asked, his voice oddly deep. “Harry’s been having trouble finding out whether the Muggles he’s accused of harming are all right. Do you know anything about that?”

Harry shot Ron a look of thanks. “Yeah. I used to frequent that bakery, and I would appreciate finding out.”

“I’m not in possession of that sort of information, Auror Weasley,” she said, twisting a lock of blond hair around her finger. “But given that Mr. Potter’s not on trial for murder, I think he’d have a chance of guessing.”

When she swished away, Harry rolled his eyes. “Careful with that one. You realize she and your wife work in the same building.”

“Relax.” Ron sat on the edge of Harry’s bed. “I wouldn’t do something like that to Hermione. Piece of skirt, though, right?”

“Not my type.”

“Speaking of wives, you haven't written to Ginny yet,” he said, producing a beat-up lunch box and divvying out the contents. “There’s a sandwich for you, and some of Hermione’s fiber cakes.”

“Will she ever make just cake cakes?”

“Oy, it’s either this or hospital slop. Here, take my apple. I get enough fruit and veg at home.”

As they ate, Harry could feel his friend brooding again.

“You ever going to tell me what’s going on with you and Gin?” Ron asked.

“Nothing. Don’t trouble yourself.”

“Must be serious if you won’t even talk to _me_ about it. I know you’re...separated, and all...but one would think you two could see each other in person, especially in these circumstances.”

“Really, Ron, we’re just giving each other space. Is this real meat or that fake stuff?”

Ron looked at his possibly-fake-meat sandwich. He seemed to be fighting not to squash it in his hand. “Do you think I don’t know you well enough to see when something’s wrong? And it’s not just Ginny. You’ve been going off the deep end since it all happened.” _It All._ Ron didn’t say _the War_ or _the Battle of Hogwarts_ often, opting for any number of euphemisms. “I know it was hard on you, mate,” he went on. “It was hard on all of us, but this is no way to cope. All the drinking, all the trouble you’ve been making for yourself! But the worst for me was you leaving Auror training. Why’d you have to go mouth off and then quit on me? Broke my heart. We were supposed to be wearing these robes together.”

“I know,” Harry said sadly.

“And I know you don’t want to talk about it, but what was the deal with last Saturday? Setting a building on fire? Is it true, Harry? You haven’t said a word about it.”

Harry gritted his teeth. He couldn’t answer. That would mean he’d have to _think_ about his unforgivable actions.

His silence seemed to speak volumes to Ron, who nodded, and croaked, “Hermione and I have been talking.”

“I couldn’t tell.”

“Harry.” Ron had taken on a funny tone of voice, something too similar to disappointment for Harry’s liking. “You’ve got to make some improvements, mate. We want you in our life, but we can’t have you there while you’re this destructive.”

Harry heard Hermione so clearly in that statement. “That’s what you say to a friend having a hard go of it?” he scoffed.

“I don’t know what else to do. This is our last resort. We’re not making this decision lightly.”

“You’re telling me you’ve _both_ agreed to this?”

The whiskey on the table began to vibrate. Harry was aware of how little he had left.

Ron placed a large, freckled hand on Harry’s, and the vibration stopped. “We want to help, all right? Come stay with us between your release and your hearing. We know you have no place else to go—plus, we want you there. We’ll help you back on your feet.”

Harry nodded vaguely.

Ron hesitated. “And the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings Hermione’s been pushing?”

Harry pulled his hand back. “Absolutely not.”

“ _Come on, Harry_ —”

“Look, I’ll stay with you guys for a while. I’ll try not to drink. But I won’t go to those bloody crackpot meetings!”

“She won’t let you stay unless you do it.”

The vise around Harry’s head tightened a notch. Was it residual concussion or pure anger? It didn’t matter. He had to numb it. He grabbed the whiskey, took a swig, and spat, “Why don’t you tell your wife she can stop her meddling any time she likes?”

“Lay off her! She means well.”

“She means to punish me, more like! What does she think will happen when the Prophet gets wind of this? Does she think this is somehow better than me running amok? I can see the headlines now—‘Harry Potter, Pissed and Pathetic in Local Feel-Good Group.’”

“As a matter of fact, she does think it’s better. For one, there’s your health. For two, there’s a confidentiality associated with this group, _and_ Hermione’s found dozens of Muggle sects, so the risk of exposure’s a lot less. She’s thought of everything. She’s doing you a huge favor.”

“ _I didn’t ask her for a favor!_ ”

“Fuck, Harry!” He threw his sandwich to the floor with a plop. “Show some respect! Hermione’s been up every night researching your rights. She convinced the Ministry to hear your case sooner to help you avoid negative media attention. She got you the best therapist around. She’s been wearing herself thin, trying to smooth all this out for you! Even though you hardly come around to see us anymore, and when you do it’s only to crash on our sofa or bitch about how meaningless your life is. But Hermione’s loyalty has never wavered. All the while, she’s—”

Ron shook his head. The color was draining from his face, making his freckles stand out, bright orange.

“What?” Harry asked once the shock of Ron’s outburst had worn off. “Is something wrong with Hermione?”

“No, no. She’s—” Ron gulped, and Harry realized before he said it. “We’re having a baby.”

Silence.

“We can’t have you around our child if you’re always drunk, and destroying things, and endangering people, even yourself. I’m sorry. This isn’t how I wanted to tell you.” Ron snatched up his lunch and strode to the door. “I’ll guard from the hall. And, no,” he said tragically, looking over his shoulder, “there’s no meat on the sandwich.”

The door slammed behind him, and Harry was left with an empty bottle and a heavy heart.

 

**2.**

 

Hermione hadn’t told him about her pregnancy yet, and she didn’t feel any bigger when they hugged, so Harry decided to withhold his congratulations.

“Thank you for all of this,” he said instead. “It’s more than I deserve.”

“Honestly, Harry, you know you’re always welcome in our home. I hope this will help with...things.”

Hermione hadn’t mentioned his drinking either, but he’d found a stack of A.A. memorabilia on his bed.

“I don’t just mean staying here,” Harry said, looking around the drawing room. The decor was neutral in color, with straight lines, and trinketed with purely functional items. Very Hermione. “Thank you for doing all that research and for representing me in the hearing.”

“Don’t celebrate just yet. Your hearing is the going to be the highest hurdle to jump. They’ve bumped it up to a full Wizengamot, you know. Someone’s been nagging Shacklebolt endlessly about it.”

“I’ve really fucked things up, haven’t I?”

She gave him a joyless smile. “Yes, you have.”

Ron emerged from their bedroom with a floppy hat, which he plonked onto Hermione’s head. “We’re going to catch up in the garden,” he said, looking less than pleased. “You want to join us, Harry?”

“In a bit. I’d like to settle in first.”

Harry watched them walk across the lawn to the neat, fenced-in garden. When they were far enough, he rushed into the kitchen, flinging open the cabinet where Ron stored his liquor, pleased they’d trusted him enough not to lock it. He stood back. Every drop of liquor was gone, even the wine and the ancient rum Hagrid had given them as a wedding gift.

Fuck.

Harry knew his friends weren’t going to make it easy for him to slip up, but a nip here and a shot there should have been understandable. For his nerves.

He resigned himself to the porch. From here, he could see his friends bickering in the distance. _Should I ditch them now or later?_ he wondered, though ditching them at all would put even more strain on their friendship, not to mention he didn’t stand a chance against the Wizengamot without Hermione. He sighed, flipping on Ron’s wooden wireless. Perhaps some Quidditch highlights would improve his mood....

“And now for some celebrity gossip,” a man declared on the news. “Or shall we say _former-_ celebrity gossip? My sources tell me the Boy Who’s Been Making Headlines these past few years—for things less impressive than vanquishing the Dark Lord—is once again in a whole lot of trouble. That’s right, apparently the man behind the alleged fire-attack on two London Muggles is none other than Harry Potter.”

“Really, Johnny!” a female voice chimed in. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“He’s nowhere to be found for questioning, but one source hints he’s been holed up in Saint Mungo’s having his brain prodded by the finest mediwizards.”

“When are they going to lock him up for good, Johnny?”

“Beats me, Norma. Our listeners will recall the incident last year, in which Potter made a spectacle of himself—attempting to, in his words, ‘catch two thieves in the act’—at Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley. The thieves in question claimed that Potter had _framed_ them by planting store merchandise in their robes, blaming them publicly, and hexing them upside down until the merchandise fell out of their pockets. Neither party was proven guilty.”

Harry grabbed the radio, looking at it accusingly, but the man continued to gossip....

“Even more bizarre was an incident last year involving Head Auror Gawain Robards. Potter is said to have challenged Robards to a wizard’s duel during his Auror training, saying, quote, ‘I could do your job with a Death Eater covering my eyes, and still banish Lord Voldemort before tea.’”

The woman shuddered. “I don’t know how you say that name, Johnny.”

“Finally, there’s Potter’s erratic private life: his public fights with estranged wife and Quidditch star, Ginevra Potter, née Weasley. His tendency to fly a broom while intoxicated. His rumored marital infidelities—”

“Cad!”

“And as more rumors have it, these infidelities aren’t gender-specific. In fact, one source spotted him behind a Muggle pub last spring—with _another man_ —and said the two were—”

“Johnny, let’s keep things decent for our younger listeners!”

“Well, there’s no proof on the matter, anyway, Norma. No one knows _why_ Harry Potter’s veered so far from his wholesome past. Does he miss his childhood limelight? Is he trying to remain relevant in our increasingly peaceful wizarding world? Whatever his intentions are, one thing’s for certain—he’s not gaining any more fans this way. Now, on to sports!”

Harry dropped the radio just as Ron came jogging towards him.

“Oy, Hermione kicked me out, saying I don’t pull weeds right,” he said, grinning. “Little does she know, that was the plan all along! Up for some two-man Quidditch?”

“ _Please_ ,” Harry said, grateful for the distraction.

\---

“Harry, I know the detoxing process has left you under the weather,” Hermione said, as they walked down the torchlit basement corridor. “Just let me do the talking, and everything will be okay.” She looked at Ron, who gave her a reassuring nod. “And we’re proud of you for doing so well with your therapist and your daily meetings.”

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. Hermione knew perfectly well how pointless he found those meetings; hearing a bunch of saps talk about alcohol only made him want it more.

“Sure,” he said indulgently, and they left Ron behind in the corridor.

Once everyone was seated, Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt stared down at Harry, stern but not unkind.

“ _Sonorus_ ,” he said, tapping his throat, and the chamber was filled with the deep, gentle waves of his voice. “I’m going to be brisk. I’m sure none of us were expecting a full Wizengamot this morning.” He glowered at someone in the shadows, but Harry could not make out whom. “The charges are thus. Charge one: Involvement in violent acts against Muggles, including arson and assault by trapping said Muggles in a dangerous environment. Charge two: Indiscriminately using magic in the vicinity of Muggles. Charge three—”

“Actually, I believe charge two can be stricken,” Hermione said loudly, next to Harry. “It’s been addressed by the department from which it originated.” She levitated a document into Shacklebolt’s outstretched hand, and added (rather pleased with herself), “I’d also like to move that any evidence associated with charge two be removed from this hearing’s evidence, as is indicated in the _Wizengamot Charter of Rights_.”

Before Kingsley could answer, the Senior Undersecretary interjected. “Were you not in the middle of serving a probation at the time of these incidents, Mr. Potter?”

Percy Weasley was looking expectantly at him, as if they had never met before.

Harry cleared his throat. “Erm, yes.”

“Then, as is stated in the Ministry’s _Conduct toward Criminals and Official Deviants_ , section 2B, ‘any and all evidence gathered during a probation period can be acknowledged during a Wizengamot hearing or other extreme Ministry business.’ This includes the evidence for charge two.”

“If you say so,” Harry said threateningly.

Hermione shushed him with a look. She had rather a pea soup pallor now. He wondered if it had to do with the hearing or her pregnancy.

“Moving on,” said Shacklebolt. “Charge three: Violation of the aforementioned probation. Is that all?”

The witches and wizards in the stands nodded. Harry didn’t suppose they had much choice. Shacklebolt had a way of asking questions that sounded more like definitive statements.

Percy Weasley began. “About this fire, Mr. Potter....”

As the hearing proceeded, Harry realized he’d like to set Percy Weasley on fire, as it were. The nerve of that speckled git! Putting bureaucracy and protocol first! They were _brothers-in-law_. Not that they’d ever been close, but, really, this was Harry’s life in limbo. Perhaps if Harry flicked his finger, he could send Percy’s robes flying over his head.

“Mr. Potter?”

“What?”

Shacklebolt was looking at him with an almost fatherly expression. “Can you confirm that you are Harry James Potter, date of birth July 31, 1980?”

“Yes.”

“Auror Peabody, is this the man you saw on the rooftop of the Café de Mots, June 22, 2005?”

“Yeah, Minister. That’s ‘im, all right.”

There was a stringy-haired man sitting on a raised dais, halfway between Harry’s level and the Minister’s. Harry recognized his voice. It was the man who had arrested him that night.

“Please, describe what you saw that day,” Shacklebolt instructed.

“I was on me broomstick, watchin’ from above London. I saw him, Harry Potter, climbing up onto the cafe by the fire escape. Wasn't subtle ‘bout it, neither. He looked right pissed, he did.”

“Speculation,” Hermione said.

Shacklebolt looked over his shoulder. “Scribe, make note it is Auror Peabody’s _observation_ that Mr. Potter was intoxicated that day. Please, continue.”

Peabody wiped his brow. “As I was sayin’. Potter went onto the roof, paced around for a tick, talking to ‘imself, and then he just started smiling. Bit creepy, it was. After a while, he walked to the edge of the rooftop. Thought he might jump. Almost flew over to him. But then I realized he was lookin’ at something. Across the street, there was a bakery. Potter was lookin’ through the windows, I reckon at the man and woman inside.”

“Wizengamot,” Percy said, “take note this was the location Mr. Potter had set his listening charm, as told by the Tracing committee.”

“Then it happened,” said Peabody. “The whole damn place just started burnin’. It was faster than a normal fire, like some sort of ‘orrible curse that I didn’t recognize. And the smoke...the screaming...it was hard to watch.”

“Did you try to save them?” asked Shacklebolt.

“The Muggles? Well, no. I was on assignment, you see. But I called for backup.”

A small, gray witch in the back row stood up. “Hold on! We’re sitting here wondering whether Harry Potter brought harm to Muggles? All the while, our own Auror stood by and allowed those Muggles to burn?”

The Wizengamot began to murmur. Peabody searched the chamber with wide eyes, but for what, Harry wasn’t sure.

“Hold your questions!” Shacklebolt said, raising a hand. “What did Potter do next, Auror Peabody?”

“Well, erm. He climbed off the roof and tried to break down the bakery door. And I stopped him. I had to, you see, because—”

The chamber exploded with whispering, and even Shacklebolt could not shush it. A portly wizard asked, “Why the Hell would Harry Potter put those people in danger and then run in and try to save them?”

“Yes, and couldn’t you have saved the Muggles _with_ Potter, and then arrested him?” shouted another.

“Pardon me!” Percy said with an air of importance. “We are not debating over who should have saved whom. We are deciding whether Mr. Potter set fire to that building and, in doing so, locked those Muggles inside.”

The chamber grew quiet. Harry could feel fifty sets of eyes on him.

“Well, did you?” asked the portly wizard, still standing.

Harry looked to Hermione. She nodded, as if to say, _We’ve rehearsed this_. He knew she was probably sick over the idea of lying, but it was their last resort.

He looked up, and said, “N-No, sir.”

“Yes! Yes, he did,” Peabody insisted.

Shacklebolt rubbed his bald head tiredly. “Do you have proof, Mr. Peabody? Because from your story, it does not appear that Mr. Potter was doing anything but standing across the way. And before the listening charm—which proves nothing except that Potter’s an eavesdropper—we can see the last spell he cast was a charm to produce flowers. And before that a charm to produce a fountain of champagne. Which, I think may shed some light on whether you were intoxicated that night, Mr. Potter, but that is beside the point. The point is there’s no fire-related magic on his Trace.”

Peabody made no response. He looked into the crowd again. That was when Harry saw the solemn, familiar face of Head Auror, Gawain Robards. Harry hadn’t seen Robards since he’d stormed out of Auror training, with sparks and smoke and Robards’ bellowing in his wake.

“Would the defense care to question the witness?” Shacklebolt asked.

Hermione reached for her notes, but then thought better of it, easing out of her chair and standing up straight. With this newfound posture, her robes drew back, and Harry thought he could see the small bulge of her belly for the first time.

“Auror Peabody,” she asked, “what business did you have in Muggle London that day?”

“I was on assignment, like I said.”

“What was your assignment?”

“To watch ‘Arry Potter. He’d been suspected of violating his probation for a long time, leaving wizarding London when he wasn’t s’posed to.”

“Petty task for an Auror, following around a low-level violator like Mr. Potter. What was your specific task?”

Peabody’s eyes flicked to Robards, who gave a curt nod. “To gather evidence. Potter’s been rising on our list of top dangerous criminals, what with his tomfoolery, of late, not to mention ‘ow powerful the he is....”

“Albus Dumbledore was powerful. Was he on an Auror watchlist?”

“No, madam. But Dumbledore didn’t go around flashin’ his powers for no reason. And the magic Potter’s been using...I mean, wandless magic ain’t _that_ uncommon, but with such a powerful incendiary spell? That’s downright suspicious, if you ask me.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “You’re rather insistent that Mr. Potter cast a fire curse of some kind on June 22.”

“Yes, I saw him.”

“What did you see, exactly?”

“I saw him breathe all deliberate-like. Like he was trying to focus on something.”

There was some skeptical laughter from the shadows of the Wizengamot, and this made Hermione grow confident. “You saw him _breathing_ , then? You did not see him pick up his wand? Or move his hand to gather magical force?”

“No, I can’t say that I did.”

“Thank you, Auror Peabody. We’re finished questioning the witness.” Peabody shuffled away, glaring at Harry through the strings of his hair, and Hermione smiled at the Wizengamot like she had at Harry and Ron while they were rehearsing her arguments. “It seems there is no proof Harry Potter set fire to anything that day. And ample proof he tried to save two Muggles. I would like to ask the Wizengamot—where is the crime in that?”

“Wizengamot,” Shacklebolt announced, “Is that all before our vote?”

“No, Minister. I would like to speak.”

Head Auror Robards stood creakily. He appeared too old to be fighting Dark wizards, but Harry knew once he got into dueling stance he had the potential energy of a taut rubber band. Harry expected to be interrogated, but instead Robards faced the Wizengamot.

“Perhaps Auror Peabody was unable to convey this to you all, but Harry Potter is a menace. Hate to say it. I really do. He was a fine trainee back in Auror school, probably the best. But that’s no more—because he didn’t listen to the rules. Got himself into trouble, even sought after trouble, if you ask me.

“If I told him to strategize with a team to clear out a haunted house, he’d rush in without a worry for himself or others. If I tried to teach him counter-curses to disarm a Dark wizard, he’d just curse them harder, provoking them, rather than subduing them. Not our way, not the Aurors. Aurors are team players, cool, controlled, and structured. They’re everything Harry Potter is not.”

Robards reached into his robes and pulled out a fistful of scrolls.

“I have in my hand the reports for all the crimes for which Potter has been accused in the past two years.”

As he read from them, he slapped down each wrinkled parchment one by one, as if the force of his hand proved Harry’s treachery.

“Rampant public intoxication...lewd behavior in public...unlawful entry to a commercial property... assault...theft...public disturbance...and the only thing he was ever given a semblance of punishment for—drunk broomstick riding.”

Hermione was bristling beside him. Others were, too.

A handsome, young wizard in purple robes spoke up: “Most of these infractions were misunderstandings.”

Robards turned on him, eyes wide. “Rather a lot of misunderstandings for one person! These are recurring behaviors. And no one in this damned Ministry is taking the matter seriously but me. A couple fines and some mandatory Ministry surveillance? That is not enough, not for someone so powerful. I would like to remind everyone what happened the last time a young, hot-headed, immensely powerful but well-intentioned wizard was free in our society.”

The same wizard replied, “Yes, Harry Potter vanquished him!”

Harry decided he rather liked that fellow. Some others did, too, shouting encouragement.

Robards snorted, and said, “You are _gushing_ , Mr. Philippa.”

The young wizard turned pink and sank into the crowd.

“Yes, it was an impressive thing Harry Potter did,” Robards went on. “And now his task is done. But he can’t _stand_ that. So, he is creating his own trouble, so he can save the day! Not even the lives of other witches, wizards, and Muggles hold a candle to his desire for glory, for power! Don’t you understand? This is a poorly disguised _hero’s complex_.”

The Wizengamot, once alive with indignation, was silent. Their staring made Harry feel heavy and guilty. He looked at Hermione for response, and found her thumbing hastily through her notes. He realized, for all the laws she’d studied and logic games she’d practiced, she had not anticipated battling an emotional plea.

Somehow, it was Percy Weasley who came to Harry’s rescue. “Auror Robards, let’s not start any rumors. Even if Mr. Potter has been...eccentric recently, he is still entitled to a fair hearing. We are discussing current matters, and that is all. Unless you can prove wrongdoing on his part the night of the fire?”

“No,” he said, his wrinkled lips quivering. “I cannot _prove_ wrongdoing that night. I simply know wrong when I see it.”

“Very well. Please take your seat, sir.”

Gawain Robards did not take his seat. He spun on his heel, pointing at Harry with a crooked finger. “If you hadn’t washed out of Auror training, you could still be gallivanting around, saving lives. But as of now, you are a civilian wizard, and you are making the lives of all Magical Enforcers difficult. Just keep to yourself and knock off the Dark magic, boy.”

And he plopped down onto his bench.

Shacklebolt cleared his throat. “Anyone else? No? Good. Of the fifty witches and wizards of the Wizengamot present today, how do you vote? Those in favor of declaring Harry Potter guilty of the crime of Muggle Endangerment through arson, please raise your wand hands.”

Agonizingly, hands began to rise. Harry counted fifteen...twenty...perhaps a few more hands in the air....

“Those in favor of clearing this charge?”

The rest volunteered their hands, but they were scattered. Harry was having a hard time counting, but he saw that Percy’s hand was among his sympathizers.

“It’s a draw,” said Percy. “Twenty-five to twenty-five. Minister Shacklebolt, you’re to cast the deciding vote.”

To Harry’s immense relief, Kingsley Shacklebolt snatched his gavel, smacked the bench, and said, “Cleared! Now the final charge—”

There was a loud click. A shaft of light filtered in from the corridor, where a large, freckled hand held open the courtroom door. A paper plane zoomed in, circled around the ceiling, and then nose-dived into Shacklebolt’s lap.

“What is the meaning of this?” Percy spluttered. “Auror Weasley! Under no circumstances is the Wizengamot to be disturbed by outside—”

“It’s all right, Mr. Undersecretary. I asked to be disturbed by this particular letter,” Shacklebolt said. A smile barely played on his lips. “Harry Potter, you’re in luck. Charge three has been settled by the probation office, pending your community service. This hearing is adjourned.”

Harry choked. “Community what? Kingsley—”

But Shacklebolt was already striding away with the rest of the officials, chatting with the head of the Police Wizards about the Quidditch World Cup. Some people, including the handsome man who had defended Harry, lingered to congratulate him.

When he was rid of them, Harry turned to Hermione. She was rolling up her scrolls, looking far too pleased with herself.

“What have you done?” he asked hesitantly.

She smiled. “No worries, Harry. I think you’ll enjoy this punishment.”

**3.**

Platform 9 3/4 was packed with students and parents by the time they arrived, many of whom pointed at Harry, Ron, and Hermione (for what Harry hoped were good reasons, and not his recent claims to fame).

“Are you sure you have everything?” Hermione asked, looking at the single floating trunk.

“I have everything I own,” Harry said, which earned him a mournful smile. He imagined he should avoid reminding Ron and Hermione that he’d given up his flat to Ginny over a year ago in their falling out, along with most of his possessions, but he was so very tired of deluding them.

“I know with only a couple weeks to prepare, you haven’t had time to write a lesson plan,” Hermione said, digging in her bag, "so here’s a list of ideas that I went ahead and wrote down for you.”

“Oh, Hermione, you’re too much—”

“—and I know Professor McGonagall saved some of the last professor’s outlines, but if you need anything—”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I’ll manage.” He plucked the scroll out of her hand.

“Yeah, ‘Mione,” Ron said, putting his arm around her. “Our boy’s all grown up now. Though, the Ministry’s going to be checking up on you, so—you know—no stringing up the students by the ankles!”

Harry shot him his friendliest _sod off_ face, and turned back to Hermione. “I still don’t know how you managed to get me a teaching position as community service.”

Ron looked skeptical, too. “Yeah, but anything to keep the likes of you off the streets. Oy!”

Hermione had elbowed him.

“Honestly, Harry,” she said. “With your knowledge of the Dark Arts, it wasn’t difficult convincing McGonagall you’d be right for the job. She practically demanded you from the Ministry. Just be on your best behavior, do your job, and your probation will dissolve at the end of term.”

“Yeah, mate, and make sure you’re teaching the _Defense_ Against the Dark Arts.” Ron winked, and he and Harry shook hands.

When the final whistle blew, Harry was leaning out the window, feeling very silly to be the only adult in a throng of young faces.

“Good luck! Safe trip!” his friends were saying.

“Thanks, Mum and Dad. Oh, speaking of which—” He dug in his robes, and tossed out a little plush doll with a mop of black hair and a sewn-on lightening bolt scar. “For the little one.”

“You’re right modest,” Ron was laughing.

“Harry, I didn’t know you knew,” Hermione choked, as the train began to move. “I didn’t want to tell you...with all the stress....”

“Don’t worry about it. But from now on, I’ll be the best uncle I can be!”

Her eyes were glistening as Ron hugged her from behind, and they waved at Harry until they were tiny shapes in the distance.

He sank into his seat, nauseated at how invested his friends were in his welfare, especially Hermione. He had slipped up while staying with them, sneaking out to Muggle London for “just a nip”. When he woke up at home with a split lip, unable to account for the last seven hours, Hermione was standing over him, stone-faced. Before the guilt hit, Harry lay there wondering if that hands-on-the-hips thing was something passed down between Weasley women.

“Last chance,” she had promised.

Harry hadn’t disappointed her since, but his self-control was waning. He wondered if the tea trolley witch would have any of those tiny bottles of—

Nevermind. Three little girls were piling into his compartment. He couldn’t bear the thought of being reported drunk to McGonagall on the very first day.

The girls were first years. He judged this by their size and their tendency to preface sentences with “Well, my brother said that at Hogwarts....” They were also giggly. Had young girls always been this giggly? Harry had them convinced he was just the school janitor, so they would leave him alone, until an older boy with puffy brown hair popped his head in.

“Minna, did you hear? Everyone’s saying that Harry Potter is on the train, and he’s our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Apparently nobody’s seen him sober in public since—”

The boy noticed Harry, and turned white as a sheet.

“Erm, sorry,” he squeaked, and ducked out.

Minna looked embarrassed, finally seeing Harry’s scar. “Sorry, that was just my older brother, Bigsby. He’s always messing things up.”

“But he was right about Harry Potter,” whispered her wide-eyed friend. “My mum said he—”

Minna shushed her.

Harry spent the rest of the journey staring darkly out of the window.

His mood continued to sour when he had to squeeze into a thestral carriage with a bunch of haughty Slytherins. He was feeling positively Snape-like by the time he arrived, for when he navigated through the sea of teenagers he found himself face-to-face with the Battle of Hogwarts tapestry now hanging in the Entrance Hall. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being acknowledged; he felt shamefully, vainly pleased about it most days. It was just that with Harry in the center, wand arm flexed, surrounded by his war-ready friends and many faces now dead or out-of-touch, the tapestry looked like some kind of nightmarish movie poster. Not to mention the movie was starring a version of Harry who no longer existed. Harry was now a shell of the person in that tapestry. Despite his twenty-five years, he was not youthful and golden. And he was more sunken than strong. And while Harry in the tapestry held himself high, Harry today slouched and could barely maintain a daily shave.

He should be thinking about how far he’d come since then, not how far he’d fallen.

Somehow, he managed a neutral face for the Sorting and feast. He ate heartily to distract himself from the butterbeer flagon in front of Professor Slughorn.

“Any tips for a first time teacher, Hagrid?” he asked, mouth full of steak and kidney pie.

“Tips? Me, give Harry Potter tips? Yer gonna do fantastic withou’ advice from the likes of me.”

On Harry’s other side, Slughorn chimed in. “And I seem to remember you teaching a group of young Gryffindors the ways of defense magic some years ago. You’ll do fine, Harry. Just include some of my Slytherins this time, hm?”

At the mention of Slytherins, Harry scanned their table. Eyes kept flicking towards him, some curious, some suspicious, and many dancing with mockery. He started a mental countdown to December.

“I almos’ forgot,” Hagrid said, as the plates were disappearing and everyone began stand and yawn. “I got yeh this as a congratulations on yer new teachin’ post.” He pulled a bottle out of his giant, patchy coat. Harry knew it before he read the label—White Rat Whisky, from the Hog’s Head Pub.

Hagrid was smiling so warmly, it was clear he knew nothing of Harry’s condition.

“This is really too much,” Harry said. “Expensive stuff, you know. Why don’t you keep it for a special occasion?”

“Oh, nonsense! Go on, it’s fer you.”

It would have been impolite to refuse. At least, that’s what Harry told himself.

He followed the Headmistress to his quarters that night, the bottle swinging heavily in his robes.

“I gathered all the supplies you’ll need,” she was saying. “And I’m sure Miss Granger—excuse me, Mrs. Granger-Weasley—informed you you’ll have the previous professor’s lesson plans to guide you. You can use those until you construct your own. Your first class, as you probably remember, is at 9 o’clock.”

McGonagall stopped and looked over her glasses at him. Harry expected a warning, convinced she had noticed the exchange with Hagrid, but she simply said, “Get a good night’s rest, Professor Potter. You’re going to need it.”

That sounded more foreboding than the standard “good luck,” but he shrugged it off.

Harry found himself in a small living chamber with a bedroom, a bathroom, and a drawing room with a roaring fire. He sat on a Gryffindor-red sofa and placed the whiskey on the table in front of him. Firelight flickered through its glass, the orange playing around its edges, as if to grasp it. He felt beckoned to grasp it, too.

\---

 _Dr. Bullstaff sat with his legs crossed, observing him casually, as if they were mates at a pub._ “ _Would you call yourself an alcoholic, Harry?”_

“ _N-no,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Not me. I don’t even drink everyday.”_

“ _You indicated in your paperwork that you drink for reasons other than pleasure.”_

“ _Well, yeah. Sometimes when I’m stressed. Or angry. Or bored.”_

“ _How often do these feelings occur?”_

“ _Often.”_

“ _Do you think you ever go overboard drinking?”_

“ _I get a bit boisterous sometimes. I’ve been in my share of rows, and whatnot. So, maybe. Yeah. It’s like once I start drinking, I finally feel good, so I don’t want to stop. Then my frustrations catch up with me, and they seem to come out all at once...through my wand, through my fist, whichever’s handier....”_

 _The doctor did not laugh. He eyed Harry’s wand on the coffee table._ “ _Do you feel out of control?” he asked, after a minute._

_Harry stared at him. He opened his mouth to answer—Ginny’s teary face flashed in his mind—and then he closed his mouth again._

\---

Harry jerked upright.

He was still on the sofa, but the fire was out. Clenched in his hands were the bottle of whiskey and a glass. The whiskey was still sealed.

 _A strange victory_ , he thought, but a victory nonetheless.

He pulled out his wand and groggily cast, “ _Tempus_.”

The time appeared in glowing red numbers: _09:07_

Well, shit.

Harry tossed the whiskey aside, patted his hair down, and bolted out the door, praying all the while he had packed everything he needed in his satchel. Not that it mattered, because he was dropping quills and parchment in his wake as he tried to sling the thing on his shoulder. He burst into his classroom, winded, to find a couple dozen Ravenclaw and Slytherin students blinking at him.

“Right...well, hello,” he said, and made the long walk towards the professor’s desk. The closer he got, the more he wanted to run away. McGonagall had been right to warn him.

“Late on the first day, Potter. Strike one.”

Harry stopped.

He turned slowly, hoping to God that he had misheard. Surely, that was the voice of a snotty student from whom he could take House points.

No such luck. Standing casually in the back of his classroom was Draco Malfoy. The git looked as fair, entitled, and annoying as ever. Harry did not know what to say.

“They didn’t hire a mute professor, did they?” Malfoy wondered. “Oh, this will be entertaining. Are you going to mime the lessons?”

The Slytherins erupted in laughter.

Harry quieted them with a look.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Malfoy said, sauntering towards Harry. “I’m just here to have a look-see. I heard a Great War hero had come to these parts, so I wanted to get an autograph.”

“Whatever you’re up to, Malfoy, knock it off. I don’t want to piss around today.”

“Cursing, too. That’s another strike.”

Harry looked around in a fluster. This was a class of second years, and they were beginning to look uncomfortable. He couldn’t believe Malfoy was causing him to forget himself so acutely. And what on Earth were these strikes he kept mentioning? Suddenly, he noticed Malfoy had a floating quill and parchment beside him. The quill was scribbling notes madly.

“Jokes aside, Potter, I’m here on official business. Why don’t we meet in your office for a moment?”

And just like that Draco Malfoy put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and led him to his own damned office. It felt odd to have Malfoy touching him, sort of like the rare occasion when Aunt Petunia would give him a hug. Not bad, just really, _really_ funny.

Harry brushed him off, and bolted the door. “You have one minute to explain before I hex your pointy nose off,” he said as calmly as he could manage.

Malfoy tried to look innocent. “If you insist. The Hogwarts Board of Governors elected me to keep an eye on you for a while, to make sure you’re not influencing the dear children badly. It wouldn’t do to just throw a man with a record into a school and let him do as he likes.”

“ _Throw a man with a_ —” Harry sputtered. “You were a Death Eater!”

A flash of _something_ went across Malfoy’s face. “Well, I’m not on Ministry probation like you, am I? I heard what you did. How devastating for those poor Muggles. They must have looked like gorillas rattling the bars in a burning zoo.” As Malfoy leered in amusement, Harry wondered how someone so handsome could appear so detestable. “McGonagall forgot to tell you I was coming, then? She must be going senile.”

“I think she wanted to give me my last good night’s sleep for the term.”

“Come now, it won’t be as bad as all that. In fact, I’m tossing out all the mistakes you’ve already made. I’m just that nice. That, and I’m not allowed to begin recording information until I’ve told you why I’m here.”

Harry sighed, defeated. “I want to review your notes before you turn them in to see that you’re representing me fairly.”

“It’s within your rights, I suppose,” Malfoy said, starting to meander around the room, as if he were considering buying the place.

“And you will call me Professor Potter and you will not demean me again in front of those students.”

Malfoy stopped his appraisal, and grinned in wicked delight. “How very _demanding_ you are. Oh, why not? You have my word—Professor Potter.”

Harry didn’t believe him for a second. It turned out, he was wise. While Malfoy was well behaved with “those students” the first lesson, his promise went forgotten after that.

Malfoy clicked his tongue in judgement when Harry brought out the grindylow for his third years (just like Professor Lupin had).

“Cage doesn’t seem latched properly,” he muttered into his notes.

While Malfoy was pantomiming to a group of fifth year Slytherins, Harry had the misfortune of getting distracted and mispronouncing the term “blood-sucking bugbear” as “boob-sucking bugger.” Malfoy did not miss a beat, replying, “ _Professor_ , you could buy us all a drink before you go talking like that!”

And whenever Harry referenced the defense magic he used during the Battle of Hogwarts, Malfoy would raise his hand and say, “I can’t recall, do you prefer Savior Potter or Lord Potter?”

It didn’t help that more students than not laughed at his antics.

Harry was going to be sorely disappointed if Hermione had known she was hiring him into this. If she wanted him to stop drinking and act civilized, caging him up with Malfoy was not the way to go about it.

He called Ron and Hermione via floo at the end of the week.

“ _Malfoy_ is on the Board of Governors?” she exclaimed, her curly hair flickering in the flames of Harry’s fireplace. “I’m sorry, Harry. I knew they were sending someone, but not Draco Malfoy. How did he get a spot on the Board, anyway? I know it wasn’t because of his father. Lucius was kicked off years ago.”

“Probably bought his seat,” Ron said. His hair looked the same in the flames.

“You can’t do that, can you?” Hermione asked.

“You can buy anything if your money’s old enough.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Oy!” Harry interrupted. “I called to complain to you, not watch you debate.”

Hermione turned back to him. “You should let Professor McGonagall know about Malfoy’s behavior if he’s getting in the way of you teaching.”

“You want me to tattle on him? It’s not as if we’re first years again.”

“He’s certainly pretending to be. It’s unprofessional.”

“Well, I’ll deal with it myself,” Harry resolved. He’d never live it down if Malfoy found out he’d run to McGonagall crying.

“This is one circumstance where I wouldn’t fault you for hexing someone,” Ron said. “Aim for his hair! It’s suspiciously sleek.”

Hermione snorted “Anyway, Harry, I’m proud of you for making the best of this week, despite the circumstances.”

“Thanks, though I don’t think my students learned anything but the sound of Malfoy’s voice. And, God, these old lesson plans are really boring, on top of it.” Harry shook his head, realizing he was starting to whinge. “Do you two want to meet up in Hogsmeade on Saturday? Maybe you could help me think up some new material.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going away to visit Ron’s parents over the weekend.”

The lack of invitation meant Ginny would be there, Harry thought somberly.

Ron broke the silence. “Hey, mum’s making that pie you like. I’ll bring you a slice next time I see you.”

Harry nodded his thanks, and spent the rest of the evening on his sofa, staring at the whiskey bottle in his open cupboard.

 

**4.**

Harry found himself leading a troupe of energetic third years to Hogsmeade. He was glad to get out of the castle, having been tempted by the whiskey every day for two weeks. While he was proud of his resistance, it was wearing thin. He thought it would have broken already, if not for his deep fear of losing control amongst the students—imagine, Harry was liable to hex the first one to look at him funny, or wake up the next morning with a seventh year in his bed!

With its red leaves and crisp, white air, autumn was in its prime. Today was so chilly that the students were dancing rather than walking down the main street, weaving throughout the crowd.

“I just don’t see why we have to do so much reading,” one boy complained behind his Gryffindor scarf. It was Bigsby, the boy who’d embarrassed himself on the train. “Unless we’re going to use the book to throw at the enemy.”

“Your old professor was big on theory first, then projects, and then practical learning,” Harry told him.

“But you’re not Professor Smith, sir. You’re Harry Potter.”

A rather round, pink-faced girl spoke up. “Yeah! I don’t know why we have to read so many books either. My aunt says _you_ were never good at book work.”

“Who’s your aunt?” Harry asked, somewhere between bothered and entertained.

“Millicent Bulstrode.”

“Figures.” He stopped at Honeydukes. “Well, if she’s right, just think how much better than me you’ll be at Defense Against the Dark Arts if you do as you’re told. Now what are you all doing, talking about your studies on a day like this? Look where we are.”

They seemed to come to their senses, stampeding inside the sweet shop, all except one.

“What is it, Bigs?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t mean those things I said on the train, Professor. Truth is, I’m always mucking things up. But maybe if we did something besides bookwork in class, I might have a chance to be good at something for once. Not as good as you or anything, but....”

Harry looked down at the boy. He was sheepish, fuzzy-headed, and covered in spots. If anyone needed a pick-me-up more than Harry, it was this lad.

“I’m no better than you, all right? Lately I’ve been mucking things up myself. Why don’t I try and think of some lessons that might suit us both better?”

When Bigsby grinned and ran into Honeydukes, Harry was overcome with satisfaction.

“That was kind of you,” someone said behind him.

Harry turned, and found a handsome man in a purple cloak there.

“But you _were_ special at their age, weren’t you?” the man continued.

Harry was rather struck by his kind, hazel eyes, and could only say, “Er—”

“I’m terribly sorry.” He shook his head bashfully, extending a hand. “You wouldn’t remember me. I’m Peter Philippa, I attended your Wizengamot hearing.”

“I do remember,” Harry said, shaking his hand slowly. “You stuck up for me.”

“Not well, I’m afraid. I was reprimanded later for being ‘overly passionate.’ They don’t take to that at the Ministry.”

“I suppose they wouldn’t. Well, the charges were thrown out, at any rate. Thank you, Mr. Philippa.”

“Please, call me Peter.” He looked around Hogsmeade Square with a crinkle to his eyes. “I’ve finished my business here. If you’re not busy, would you care to join me for a pint?”

“Erm.” Harry peered into Honeydukes. The third years were stuffing their shopping baskets with enough merchandise to start their own sweet shop. “I’m here as a chaperone, actually. I’m responsible for about forty-odd students.” Peter’s face fell, so Harry added, “But if you’ve got nothing else to do, I’d enjoy some adult company while I walk. It’s so rare these days.”

Harry found this man was easy company, indeed. They meandered through Hogsmeade in comfortable silence, occasionally tending to the inquiries of students. (“No, you may not bring exploding candy back for your brother,” Harry told the Bulstrode girl. “You’ll have to explode another child with it here, where I can supervise you.”) Peter even indulged him as he rambled about the Black Jet, a broom in the window display at Spintwitches Quidditch Supplies.

“It’s mind-blowingly fast!” Harry was saying, peering over some fifth years’ heads. “But is it as deft as the Firebolt was? I think not.”

“Certainly not,” Peter agreed, in a way that made it clear he knew nothing about sports brooms. They laughed.

Harry grew thoughtful as he looked at his reflection amongst all the young faces. “You’re wrong, you know,” he told Peter, leading them down the row of shops. “I don’t think I was special at their age. But I do think I was _meant_ to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“The older I get, the more I realize that I was _put_ in a role to fulfill. I didn’t fulfill that role by coincidence just because I had talent— _that_ would have made me special.”

“I see. What you’re not acknowledging is that not everyone could have lived up to that role, even if they were assigned it. Whether it was intentional or not, you were one in a million. And that makes you special.” Peter wrapped his cloak up tighter, crossing his arms, and looking a bit boyish. “Listen to me, I sound like a rabid fan. I promise, I’m not. But I did admire you, growing up.”

Harry was at loss for words again. He decided on, “I’m flattered.”

Orange sky turned to red. Red turned to purple. When the temperature dropped, Peter pulled up his fur-lined hood, and Harry observed him. He had a heart-shaped face, olive skin, and dimples in each cheek. He seemed to be one of those people who was always smiling, even when they weren’t, like Professor Lupin or Dumbledore. Harry found it comforting.

When Professor Flitwick realized how late it was, he called the group together. “We’d better be off! Stay out if you like, Professor Potter! I can’t imagine retiring at nine o’clock on a Saturday at your age.”

“I suppose we’re in luck,” Harry said, noting how Peter’s gaze had brightened.

“How about that pint, then?”

Harry nodded, promising himself he’d order water.

It had been weeks since he’d last seen a pub. That had been a Muggle pub, mind, quite different than this one, where old wizards drew on churchwarden pipes, puffing out shapes of animals and men, and where candles floated overhead, dripping wax in your hair if you weren’t paying attention. But the air was the same: that merry, heavy sort of raucous. Harry had missed it. He had missed the roaring fire, the drunken laughter, even the coquettish women vying for drinks. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself with a pint in hand in no time.

He focused on breathing for a moment. He opened his eyes. When had they closed?

Peter was next to him, concerned. “Are you quite all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Harry said more shortly than he meant to. “Er, you here often, then?”

If Peter was offended by Harry’s change in demeanor, he did not show it. He spoke with the same deliberate pace, so polite it was almost detached. “I do. I live nearby, actually. It get’s lonely with a whole house to myself, so I often come here for dinner.”

Harry was paying more attention to the man behind Peter, who was chuckling so hard that beer foam was dribbling down his front. _Where’s my damn water?_

“There’s not much to my life,” Peter went on. “I became a Ministry official when I was quite young, barely seventeen. My uncle got me the job. Really, I’d prefer to stay at home, and read, and tend to my hobbies. I quite like gardening and photography—and photographing my garden.”

The waitress appeared with Harry’s water. He grabbed it, and relaxed, having something to do with his hands.

Peter leaned forward, eyes crinkling again. “I think you’re lucky being at Hogwarts like you are. I think I’d enjoy the constant company.”

“Did you go to Hogwarts? I don’t think I remember you.”

“No, no. My mother homeschooled me. But I was there at the Battle alongside her. We’ve lived outside Hogsmeade my whole life, you see. She was friends with Aberforth Dumbledore, who owns this place. She fought bravely, too.” Peter tapped his finger on the table, thoughtful, and Harry became aware of how close their hands were. At last Peter said, “She died that day.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I regret that I wasn’t strong enough to save her. I’m not at all like you.”

Harry gave a self-deprecating snort. “How’s that?”

“Powerful...fearless...the opposite of me. I was practically quaking behind my mum until her last breath.”

The room was so warm that the water glass was dripping with condensation. Beads were falling over the ridges of Harry’s hand. Peter stretched out his finger, as if to test, and touched one. The bead of water disappeared as it spread over his fingertip, but he did not stop touching Harry’s hand.

“If I was ever like that, I’m not anymore,” Harry said, still looking at their hands. “Which is a good thing, because there’s no longer a place for that version of me in this world.”

Peter’s voice became very soft. “Oh, I disagree on both accounts.”

“Do you?”

“Why, yes. I can see how powerful you still are, and I like that about you. Which means you belong in at least one place, Mr. Potter.”

He cleared his throat and said, “Call me Harry.”

“Harry,” he repeated, almost demure. “What I’m curious about now...if I may be forward enough to say so...is knowing what that power is like first hand.”

Peter touched his knee gently. When Harry did not protest, his slender hand drew upwards until it rested against Harry’s growing erection.

A moment later, Aberforth Dumbledore appeared with a bottle of wine, looking expectantly at Peter. Harry leaned away.

“This what you wanted?” Aberforth grumbled.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” Peter said, like nothing was out of the ordinary.

Aberforth plunked down the bottle and two glasses. “Potter,” he said, and winked.

Harry felt his face go hot.

Peter poured him a thimble’s worth of something red and floral smelling. “Why don’t you taste that?” he said, and Harry’s hands shook as he accepted it.

 _One sip can’t hurt_ , he thought. And Peter’s burning eyes compelled him.

The wine spread across his tongue like fire—not in that hot, whiskey way, but in a bright way. His mouth felt alive. His cheeks tingled, and he practically moaned when he exhaled a sweet, berry aftertaste. Harry knew he wanted more of this. All of this.

“It’s lovely,” he said into the glass.

“Shall I send the bottle upstairs?” Peter asked, so quiet Harry had to lean forward.

“Please, do.” _Please take it away._

“I’ll get a room. I’ll be discreet.”

A flash of that eternal smile, and Peter was gone. So was the bottle.

Harry snapped into reality, as if a clumsy spell has just ended.

He knew the spell was not magic. It was that aroma, effervescent but heavy, playing on his nose; the sultry sting of it coating his tongue; the weight of it in his throat, in his veins, entering his core and replacing every burden with a joyous fever. Harry felt like a spring that had been sprung!

He also felt a mental struggle coming on, one so loud he glanced around the pub to see who else had noticed. No one, of course. The other patrons had their own drink and smoke and company in which to lose themselves. It struck Harry that he was no different. He just was another soul needing an outlet. And he was now an employed wizard, responsible by society’s account. That should make a difference. If he kept a hold on that responsibility, the wine couldn’t hurt him.

If it couldn’t hurt him, he needn’t be afraid.

He stood so abruptly, his chair tipped over. So much for discretion, he thought, as some witches watched him blow by and trip up the staircase.

\---

“ _Can I ask you why you and your wife separated?”_

“ _Oh, lots of reasons,” Harry said, casting a surly glance at the galaxy globe; the constellation Leo seemed to be burning brighter right now. “It’s harder than it looks, you know? Having your path laid out for you. I was expected to be a hero. I was expected to marry the girl. I was expected to be an Auror. All that was fantastic, as it panned out. But then I realized—it was fantastic because it was easy. Not because I actually wanted it. And once I started thinking about what I did want, I started to pull away. But by then it was too late.”_

“ _Too late?”_

“ _We were too entrenched. We owned a flat. She started talking about children....”_

“ _Do you want children?”_

“ _I don’t know. But I certainly don’t want to be pressured into it.”_

“ _Is that when you started being self-destructive?”_

_Harry shrugged. “That’s when the drinking got out of hand. I started getting into fights at the pubs, even bashed in the nose of one of my co-workers. I don’t even remember who it was. I started staying out all night....”_

“ _What were you doing all night?”_

_Harry clenched his teeth. He was angrier at himself than the doctor. “I was unfaithful to her.”_

“ _You mean you slept with other women?”_

“ _Some were women.”_

 _Bullstaff took more notes._ “ _How did you feel after these occurrences?”_

“ _Horrible. I felt like the scoundrel the papers make me out to be.”_

“ _Have you ever told her about it?”_

“ _Yes,” Harry sighed. “Both the men and the women. She wanted to work it out. I told it wasn’t fair to her. She wanted to try anyway. She suggested the separation...until I got it out of my system. Then I just never went back.”_

“ _Have you acted on this...getting-it-out-of-your-system arrangement?”_

“ _No. I haven’t slept with anyone since then. It just makes me drink more, if I’m honest. And it would still feel like betrayal, even with permission. I know it’s hurting her. It’s just not fair.”_

“ _Do you find it fair to be separated with neither of you getting what you want?”_

_Harry stared at him. He didn’t think the doctor was judging his situation. But he hated how his questions seemed to lead Harry to his own answers. It made him feel transparent._

_The doctor leaned forward. “Harry, you said before that you became unhappy when you began to think about what you really wanted. What is it you realized you wanted?”_

_Harry looked at the galaxy globe again, at loss._

\---

He stood in the upper corridor of the Hog’s Head Inn, slumped against Peter’s door. There was shuffling inside, presumably the ministrations of a nervous lover: the setting out of glasses, the lighting of a fire, the arranging of pillows. Harry gripped the door frame, hesitant.

Certainly, he was _allowed_ to be doing this. He saw Ginny’s mouth in his mind: “ _I understand. Really. Get it out of your system.”_

So, why this tremulous feeling in Harry’s gut?

He heard the clinking of a bottle on the rim of a glass, like a bell awakening him from his thoughts, followed by the narrow sound of pouring wine. That was enough to still his nerves. For whatever this horrid feeling was, he wouldn’t have to feel it once he and the wine were together again.

“Hello,” he said, slipping into the room.

It was a grand suite, more suited for a honeymoon than an affair. There was a steaming bath in the back of the room, emitting perfumy bubbles; a dining table, where some chocolates and fruit were spread out; and a huge bed. Harry was a touch alarmed.

Peter pressed a glass into his hand, and with one sip all of Harry’s trepidations washed away. _Magic_ , he thought.

When Peter kissed him, it took him by surprise. He knew what this invitation was about, but the wine had blinded him. He was dismayed when Peter freed up his hands, and placed their glasses on the bedside table.

“Let’s get to those later,” he said, pulling Harry by the robes onto the bed.

He found himself on top of Peter, those purple robes falling open, a pair of warm thighs surrounding him, and ravenous hands in his hair. Harry felt so high, and it wasn’t the drink. It was Peter’s tannic, smooth mouth, and the way he pressed his head into the pillow, presenting his throat as if he were waiting to be conquered. When Harry put his mouth there, he felt the hum of laughter in Peter’s throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more patient, Harry.”

“I’m not complaining.” Harry reached down to undo his trousers. He had never taken to going bare under his robes like traditional wizards.

“I mean, maybe I should have been more sensitive,” Peter whispered between kisses. “I didn’t even know you’d been divorced yet. Of course, there were rumors it was bound to happen, but I should have been polite and asked....”

Harry sucked on a finger, ran it up Peter’s backside, and pressed in. “Oh, oh!” Peter keened. “When did you do it, anyway?”

“When did I do what?”

“Divorce.”

Harry lifted his head. “I didn’t. I mean. We just separated.”

“Sorry? I thought....”

“I mean—we’re trying to reconcile differences.”

That had made it sound worse. The passion flickered out of Peter’s eyes.

“It’s not a problem,” Harry insisted.

Peter pushed him up, and rewrapped his robes. It took him a moment to find his words. “Harry, as much as I —” He looked longingly at Harry, and then shook his head. “As much as I want this, I don’t want to hurt anybody. Especially not myself. It took a lot for me to come out as a gay wizard. Purebloods really frown upon it. I don’t want anymore secrets in my life. Not one more. They only cause harm.”

Harry must have looked stupid, sitting on his haunches with his erection in his hand. He quickly buckled up. “What now?” He stared at the wine bottle, sick to his stomach.

Peter put his hand on his arm. For the first time, he didn’t seem to be smiling.

“That’s not for me to decide.”

\---

As Harry walked back to Hogwarts, cloaked in a warming spell and led by the light of his wand, he thought back to the doctor’s question.

What did he really want?

The answer was more than just the firmness of Peter’s mouth or the shudders of some young witch or wizard, whose names he never knew. It was more than the burn of that fire in the night, when the bakery filled with smoke, and his chest filled with bravado, and he was the _only one_ who could save the day. The answer was simpler than those carnal things: He wanted to be the Harry of his choosing—not just until he “got it out of his system,” but everyday, forever.

He wasn’t going to get there stalling, drinking, brooding, hoping Ginny would lose interest and cut the tie herself. The truth was becoming clear to him. It began to swell around him, as sure as his warming spell. Harry was not doing her a service, nor was he fulfilling some duty born in the midst of a war, so long ago, when he was still the Boy Who Lived. He wasn’t being Ginny’s hero. He was being a coward.

But there was one heroic deed he could do. He could take responsibility for his own fate. He did not know if he could save Ginny, but he could certainly save himself.

**5.**

The last day of September, when the owls tumbled into the Great Hall, Harry found himself face to face with another owl that wasn’t Ginny’s. It spat a letter at him, stole his toast, and flapped away.

 _Potter_ , it read. _Meet me in my office to go over your evaluation for the month. This afternoon will do. —Draco Malfoy_

Harry was peeved enough that Ginny hadn’t written back to him yet. He had expected a response to his divorce papers by now. Having to interact with Malfoy outside of normal class time made his day all the worse.

“Wha’s the matter there, Harry?” asked Hagrid.

“Matter? Nothing’s the matter. I get to spend my afternoon with Draco Malfoy! Would you pass the eggs, please?”

Hagrid gave him a sympathetic look with the eggs, and Harry felt bad he’d been sarcastic.

“How are things really with Mr. Malfoy?” McGonagall asked, reaching for the pumpkin juice. “I know you and he were not the best of friends in school.”

“Things have been—” Harry stopped mid-bite, coming to the realization. “Things have been better, come to think of it. He seems distracted these days, which has made him easier to deal with. Still, I’d just as soon not deal with him at all.”

\---

Malfoy’s office was not in the dungeons, as Harry expected. It was in a third story tower, overlooking the lake. Harry passed the trophy room to get there, wondering all the while why they gave Malfoy an office and rooms to begin with.

“I _know_ he isn’t staff, Potter,” McGonagall had told him after breakfast, “but he’s on the Board and he’s here often enough to warrant it. Would you have had me tell him we’re out of rooms at Hogwarts?”

Harry _would_ have that, actually, but he didn’t think McGonagall would enjoy him saying so.

He knocked on Malfoy’s door during his lunch hour, and received no response. Annoyed and hungry, Harry barged right in. No Malfoy. But he reasoned if Malfoy could make himself at home in Harry’s classroom, then Harry could make himself at home in Malfoy’s office.

There were two things on the desk: an ugly black flower under a glass dome, and an untouched sandwich. The office itself was heavily adorned with what looked to be a small fortune in exotic artifacts. Among other things, there was a boar’s head mounted on the wall, complete with shiny white tusks; a set of shrunken heads hanging from a mobile; some magical gems floating around the ceiling; and, in the corner, a tall wooden chest with thermometers sticking out of it. The size of the office was impressive, too. It was big enough to have a small library in one section, complete with a brown leather sofa and a coffee table strewn with used cups and a dogeared novel. Old money had it’s perks, indeed.

Across the room, a door stood ajar. Harry went to it, prepared to admonish Malfoy for keeping him waiting, but from the sound of it, Malfoy was having a heated discussion with someone else.

“If the arrangement is already made, I don’t see why I need to be there for all these other formalities,” Malfoy was saying.

“The arrangement may have been made, but he can unmake it. Let’s not forget _why_ you got this Board of Governors post.”

Harry recognized that voice at Lucius Malfoy’s. He edged his head around the corner and saw the man’s face in the fireplace. Draco was crouched with his back to Harry.

“Because old Greengrass got too fat to do it himself?” Draco drawled.

“Because he would rather his son-in-law inherit it, than some distant cousin! And he was generous to trust you with the job after you didn’t come through on our deal with what’s her name—his first daughter—”

“Daphne, dear,” came a bored woman’s voice. Harry recognized it as Narcissa Malfoy’s, though her head was not in the fire. She sounded muffled, as if she were speaking to Lucius from elsewhere in the home.

“Yes, yes. My point is you must be married to Astoria if we wish to ensure our family’s influence. You know the war diminished our contacts. And the Greengrass lineage goes further back than even the Malfoy’s, so it can only be beneficial.”

“They’re not older than the Blacks, I’ll have you know,” Narcissa sang.

“Dad, I will marry her,” Draco said. “I just don’t see why it has to be now. I’ve got things I’d like to do first, and working at a boring job in this dusty old school isn’t one of them.”

“This argument won’t sway me again. You let the engagement with Daphne expire while you were running around the world, doing Merlin knows what. When she married into the Zabini family, we were lucky Greengrass had a second daughter to spare, or else we’d probably be betrothing you to a Weasley right now.”

“Don’t even jest that way,” Narcissa said. “Can you imagine our orange grandchildren?”

“Son,” Lucius said, not at all amused, “you will stay at Hogwarts until Christmas, at which point you _will_ marry Astoria Greengrass. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

Lucius disappeared. Immediately, Narcissa took his place, eyes bright, nothing like the cold woman Harry had always perceived her to be.

“We’ll see you Saturday, my dragon. And don’t ruin your appetite with all that coffee. I’ve ordered a raspberry cake for the engagement party. Safe journey!”

Malfoy stood abruptly. Harry hurried to the window, stuffing his hands into his pockets, noting that he could see his own chambers from here. He heard the door creak behind him.

“What on Earth— _Potter_ , what are you doing in here?”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “Sorry, when you invited me to your office, I thought that was your way of _asking me to come to your office_. My mistake. Nice place, though. What a view.”

Malfoy looked around the room like he had accidentally entered a new world. Then, just as dramatically, drew up straight. “My family has been donating to this school for hundreds of years. I deserve a great deal more than this broom closet. I suppose you heard all that with my father, then?”

Harry sat down pointedly. “I’m just here to read your notes, Malfoy.”

“Not that these sorts of things matter to you. You don’t have a dozen centuries of heritage on your back. Why the Hell am I telling you this?” Malfoy was rifling through a file drawer, nearly oblivious to Harry. “The nerve of them. It’s not as if I’m an old maid. There’s always going to be another heiress of some kind coming out. Just give me some time.”

Harry was beginning to feel awkward. He decided to distract Malfoy from the negative. It wouldn’t do to have him send off Harry’s report in such a state.

“Sounded like you got a great deal out of your engagement. Old family, clean pedigree, and Astoria Greengrass—” He whistled. “Wouldn’t find myself scoffing at that one. Don’t know why you’re putting up such a fuss.”

“Because...because....” Malfoy looked at Harry like he’d grown a second head. “Mind your own business!” he snapped, and threw folder into Harry’s lap. Then he sat at his desk, leaned his cheek on his fist, and stared at the black flower under the dome.

“Right,” Harry droned, and started flipping pages.

A few minutes later, Malfoy hadn’t budged.

“This is mostly in order,” Harry said. “Though, I’d like to contest you calling me an ‘idiot who blathers so badly he’s indistinguishable from Merfolk’ and have you just say I stumble over my words or something.”

“Why should I?”

“I could always file an appeal, give you a little more work to do on this job you wanted so badly.”

Malfoy glared. “Fine.”

Harry couldn’t believe that had worked so easily. He turned back to the evaluation. “And—come on—right here you indicate my ‘lecherous manner’ and ‘physical over-familiarity’ toward female students?”

“What about it?”

“Malfoy, I have to help students with their defensive stance. You make me sound like a pervert.”

“Do whatever you want.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He decided that he was an excellent influence over school-age children, both friendly and authoritative. When tasked with difficult students, he spent extra time nurturing their individual needs. His breadth of knowledge was impressive, but he assigned appropriately difficult coursework to each year. On top of that, he was always on time. No! Early!

Harry frowned at his work.

All that was rather wholesome, so he added “ _Needs to brush his hair more often,_ ” thinking that was something Malfoy would care about, and called it a day.

“There,” he said, and slapped the evaluation on Malfoy’s desk.

Malfoy’s focus had fallen to his sandwich. He was staring so blankly at it that Harry wondered if he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open.

“Malfoy?” he asked.

Slowly, Malfoy lifted his head. His blue-gray eyes were oddly piercing, as if he were trying to see Harry through a mist.

“Finished?” he asked. Before Harry could answer, he took out his wand and burned the tip of a stick of sealing wax. He dropped the wax precisely, stamped it with the Malfoy crest, and signed his name in perfect script. “Well, that looks in order. This time next month, Potter.”

Malfoy had tossed it aside without even reading it. Harry couldn’t believe his luck.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “See you in class.”

He hadn’t walked two steps before Malfoy’s hand shot out.

“Potter, wait,” he said, standing now, leaning on the desk like it was the only thing keeping him upright. “I’m going through a personal crisis. Please forgive my speaking to you like we’re equals. I need to know—what you said about Astoria Greengrass. Did you mean it? You find her...ideal?”

“Sorry?” Harry asked, taken aback.

“Do you find her to be a good candidate?”

“Malfoy, I don’t know what you’re getting at. You sound like you’re hiring a secretary, not choosing a wife.”

A line appeared between Malfoy’s eyebrows. He drew back his hand, slowly, until he was touching his chest, twisting his robes like he was struggling to breathe.

Harry stepped towards him. “Malfoy. Calm down. It’s really simple. Are you attracted to her? Does she make you happy? Just be honest with yourself.”

Harry didn’t know why this advice had been dormant in him five years ago. Of course, the thought of him taking advice like that five years ago was almost as absurd as the idea of him giving it to Draco Malfoy right now.

“ _I don’t even know her_ ,” Malfoy hissed. “Even if I did, it’s not like I’d want to—” He stopped short, shaking his head. His hair fell into his eyes. He looked almost childish. “Why are you talking to me like this, Potter? Get out.”

“But you were the one who—”

“Look, you’ve made my sandwich cold. And what have you done with my coffee? Get out!”

Harry took his leave, feeling thoroughly confused himself.

\---

Over the next couple days, Harry was chagrined at the number students who noticed Malfoy’s absence. _Where’s that funny blond man?_ they asked. _Who’s going to pick up Potter’s slack now?_ wondered a sallow Slytherin boy, named Liam Stoneblood. Harry took ten points and informed him that Malfoy had other business to attend.

In truth, Harry didn’t know where Malfoy had gone. Perhaps Harry’s evaluation was so sensational that the Board didn’t see the need for him any longer.

At any rate, now that his classes were private, Harry felt a burst of confidence. He led his third years onto the grounds for a nighttime lesson. They were halfway between Hagrid’s hut and his vegetable garden. The students formed a half circle around him, yawning and scuffing their trainers in the grass.

“Who knows why we’re here?” Harry asked.

“To deprive us of sleep?” asked Bulstrode, with an upturned nose.

“Try again.”

“Ghost hunting,” she amended.

“That’s not in your coursework, so use your brain.”

“Well, it’s a full moon,” came a small voice. It was Bigsby, shielded by the pack of taller Gryffindors standing in front of him.

“Real observant,” mocked Liam Stoneblood.

Harry cocked his head. “Come forward, Bigs. You’re right. We’re here to learn about the moon. But what’s special about the full moon?”

“A lot of stuff can happen during the full moon...a lot of good and bad stuff. Like werewolves coming out.”

“You’re right. It’s lucky for all of you that Hogwarts is fresh out of werewolves. What else?”

“Werecats!” said a gangly blond girl, who was leaning on Bulstrode.

“Yes, yes, all _were-_ animals.”

Bigsby spoke up again, still reserved. “My mother told me that if you set your leaves and water in the light of the full moon, by morning you’ll have a tea that can cure all your aches and pains.”

Behind Bigsby, many of the students, even his own Housemates were sniggering.

“His mummy told him,” Strongblood whispered loudly.

“Perhaps...but I’m looking for a specific category of magic,” Harry said, looking solemnly past Bigsby.

Only a couple students appeared interested, and even they were at loss. He certainly didn’t have any Hermiones in this class.

“How about love spells?” someone said.

Harry searched around, and realized the voice had come from above. Silent and white as a moonbeam himself, Draco Malfoy descended on his broomstick in front of the Slytherins. Bulstrode and her friends were giggling behind their hands at the mention of love spells.

“Thank you, Malfoy. _Mind altering magic_ , like love spells, love potions, the Imperious Curse—all those are more effective under a full moon. This is important to know, so that you might be on extra guard against such things this time of the month.”

“Professor Potter, did you really need to bring us out here in the middle of the night for this lesson?” Stoneblood asked, eyeing Malfoy for approval.

Harry was pleased that Malfoy was distracted by peeling a splinter off his broom, and gave no acknowledgment.

“No,” Harry said. “I brought you here to make use of another wonderment of the moon.” He pointed his wand towards the vegetable patch. “Those scarecrows become animated by moonlight. They like to fling things at scavenging animals and troublemakers. Why don’t you all go battle them? This will count as credit for class tomorrow. Charms and defense spells only!”

The children whooped, and all at once they were stampeding toward the scarecrows, who were so caught off guard that one derooted itself and hopped into the Forbidden Forest.

The Slytherin girls were the last to stroll away.

“— _so cute_ ,” whispered the gangly, blond girl. “I wish he was our age.”

“He’s already getting married,” said Bulstrode. “I saw it in the Prophet the other day.”

“Wish it were me. OY, I AM NOT A SCARECROW!”

The Gryffindor girls had clobbered them with a bucket load of flying dirt. Like that, the Slytherin girls went from lovesick puppies to vengeful dogs of war.

Harry tapped his foot. It was now just him and Malfoy by the light of Harry’s _Lumos_.

Malfoy was observing the children, looking pleased with himself.

“Haven’t seen you in a while, Your Smugness,” Harry said.

“They do love me, don’t they?”

Harry waved him off, saying only, “Thanks for the class input.”

“It was painful watching you fail as a teacher. Call it mercy.”

“Ah. I guess you’re back to your old self.”

“My what?”

“You know...the you that isn’t flipping out about having to marry one of the prettiest girls on the planet, or whatever else spoiled purebloods go on about.”

Malfoy pointed with his broom handle. “You’d better watch it, Potter. I could boot you off this job with a flick of my quill.”

“But you won’t.”

“Who’s smug now? Why won’t I?”

“You haven’t been to my classes all week. You’re not interested, not even to harass me. If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you don’t do what you don’t _feel like_ doing. With the exception of getting married, apparently.”

Malfoy bristled, but said nothing. He leaned on his broomstick, watching the largest scarecrow blast Stoneblood with stones, ironically, until he fell on his bum.

“Since I now know you don’t relish this job,” Harry went on, “what are you doing out here?”

“I’m as entitled to a moonlight broom ride as the next wizard. But mainly, it’s this.” He produced a scroll. Harry recognized it as the evaluation from the other day. “The Board found it suspiciously optimistic and short. Thanks a lot, Potter. I can’t believe what you wrote. _My name_ is attached to this drivel.”

Harry couldn’t help grinning. “You told me to write what I liked.”

“There’s something called suspension of disbelief. _But it only applies in works of fiction_. You’ve got to be realistic with these sorts of things.”

“And what about all that nonsense you wrote? That I was a pervert, and an idiot, and all that.”

“That’s perfectly true,” he said, flicking his hair out of his face. Harry gave him an incredulous look. “All right, I was giving you a hard time, obviously. But next time we will get this right.”

“We? You’re so weird. You fix it.”

“You know what’s weird? This.” Malfoy whipped open the scroll, and pointed to the last thing Harry wrote. “ _Needs to brush his hair more_?” He looked at Harry like he really was a mental patient. “I mean, it’s true, Potter, your hair looks like a Hippogriff tried to nest in it, but are you really that dense?”

Harry couldn’t hold back his laughter, seeing how wide and expressive Malfoy’s eyes had become; and the way Malfoy cocked his head, Harry imagined he would have turned it upside down like an owl, if he could. Harry doubled over, clutching his ribs. This only seemed to scandalize Malfoy more.

“Sorry, let me see!” Harry reached for the scroll, laughing, but Malfoy held it out of reach. “Maybe the context—”

“It’s not a context issue, it’s a stupidity issue!”

Despite Malfoy’s annoyance, Harry thought he could make out a bit of amusement in his eyes. Before he could decide, there was a BOOM.

The children shrieked as a gigantic figure emerged from the forest. It was at least twice Harry’s height, and wielding a burning, orange ball in one hand and in the other, a monstrous, barking creature on a leash. “Weed ‘em all out, Fangie!” the figure cried, heaving the burning ball into the air. It shattered in the sky, and showered the children with red sparks. Harry could see in the Hellish light who the figure was.

“Oh god—wait, Hagrid!” he shouted, racing over.

The children scattered as Fang bounded around the vegetable patch, slobbering more than growling. The scarecrows were shaking their feeble, hay fists. In the end, Harry found himself in the middle of an empty patch of dirt with no one left to protect.

“Oh!” Hagrid said. “Harry, it’s you! How are yeh?”

“I’m fine, Hagrid, but my students are worse for wear.” He watched them all scampering off in the distance.

“Blimey, I’m sorry. I though’ you was all garden gnomes. They’ve been scarin’ the demons out of the baby Bamboozles I got penned up behin’ me hut. Anyway, Fang and I was just out gatherin’ moon mushrooms when the little scarecrow came and got me.”

“It’s my fault, Hagrid. I should have warned you we’d be out here using the scarecrows for Defense practice.” Harry ruffled his own hair, feeling very much the idiot as Malfoy had accused him of being.

“Don’ feel bad, Harry. An’ look, yeh taught one student wha’ it means to be brave.”

Harry turned. He felt a pang of pride. Standing in the far corner of the garden, behind a giant pumpkin was Bigsby—wand up, in the action pose Harry had taught him.

“Bigs,” Harry said. “Look at you, that’s perfect stance.”

Bigsby was frozen in his perfect stance, quaking behind the red force field he’d cast from his toes to the crown of his head. Fang loped over, and began to lick the barrier.

“Yeah,” Bigsby said. “I just thought...if that had been a Dark creature...this would be a good defense...yeah.”

“It’s a bit overkill for a dog and some sparks,” Harry said, moving towards him. “But it’s a fine shield. And you were the only one to stand your ground. You can put it down now.”

Bigsby sighed, and the weight of the force field fell off him. He nearly fainted into Harry’s arms.

Harry was contemplative, even pleased, as he led Bigsby to the castle. He didn’t know why he was pleased. All his students had run off, his lesson was largely ineffective, and he had destroyed Hagrid’s vegetable patch. He looked over his shoulder to where Malfoy had been standing, sure he’d find that smug look on his face. Malfoy was gone.

Halfway up the castle stairs, Harry found himself surrounded by two dozen blinking students.

And then they started to applaud.

“Best lesson ever, Professor!” said one girl, so muddy that Harry couldn’t make out who she was.

“Yeah, can we have every class at night?” asked Stoneblood. “If you ask me, this was quite the learning experience.”

“You just liked putting mud down Daisy’s robes,” said a Gryffindor boy. “Hey, is that Bigsby? What happened to him?”

Bigsby leaned away from Harry, embarrassed.

“Bigsby saved your lives,” Harry said to the astonished students. “Or he would have had a go of it if that had been a Dark creature and not Hagrid. He was the only one of you to act under pressure. He cast a defense charm to rival one of my own. Twenty points to Gryffindor.”

“Really?” Bigsby guffawed, as the other Gryffindors patted him on the back. Even the Slytherins seemed impressed, applauding half-heartedly.

The students reaffirmed their thanks to Harry until they parted ways, but he could hear them skipping and echoing their excitement the whole way back to his quarters.

It wasn’t until he lay in bed that Harry realized why he was so pleased. It was the first time he didn’t feel like an imposter in his own classroom (if a pumpkin patch could be called a classroom). For the first time, he felt like a teacher. And that meant he had a small place in this world.

**6.**

Still no post from Ginny. Harry _had_ received a crayon-scrawled letter from Teddy Lupin; an overdue bill from the tailor who had fit his dress robes (which were still smashed into the bottom of his trunk); and, for some reason, a frilly green invitation to the Malfoy-Greengrass wedding. But nothing from Ginny.

He tossed the post onto his coffee table, and fell face-first onto the sofa. From this position, he could see the whiskey bottle taunting him from the open cupboard.

This weekend had been difficult. He’d finished grading all his assignments Friday night. By Saturday afternoon, he’d wanked, gone for a run, transfigured a bunch of stones for a weightlifting routine, zipped around the Quidditch pitch forty times, and wanked again. Harry was now bored and lonely.

The whiskey looked pretty lonely, too.

Harry let out a sigh, and decided he couldn’t handle it anymore. He stuffed the bottle into his robes and set off into the cold evening air. A short while later, he found himself sipping tea from a cup the size of his head.

“I have to admit, I been worried abou’ yeh,” Hagrid said, setting the cast iron kettle back on the range. He removed a pair of pink mits and tossed them aside. “I seen some things in the papers that I don’ want to say out loud.”

“You don’t have to, Hagrid. All that’s behind me. I’m getting my act together.”

“So, it’s true then?” Hagrid asked suddenly. “You didn’ really attack no Muggles, did yeh?”

Harry took a long sip of tea, thinking. “You know Rita Skeeter. She’s always looking for an angle.”

It wasn’t really a lie. And it seemed to comfort Hagrid. He sat next to Harry with a great sigh. “Tha’s what I thought,” he said, nodding wisely.

Harry stared at his tea leaves, feeling very sick after that.

“An’ you haven’t...yeh know, been stealing or cursin’ folks...anythin’ like that?”

“Hagrid, do you think I would do that?”

A smile appeared behind his bushy beard, and Hagrid laughed and offered Harry a plate of rock cakes. “Of course, yeh wouldn’t! Here you are, they’re freshly made.”

The guilt of misleading his friend made Harry eat several, and by the time Hagrid escorted him to the door, he had a throbbing, rock-induced headache. He touched the bottle in his pocket, and knew he wanted only one thing—to take this shit home and drown in it.

Harry took the whiskey out of his robes. “Hagrid, I actually brought this with me.”

“Oh?” he asked, lifting a heavy eyebrow.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking. This is your favorite whiskey, and it’s very expensive. I can’t take it from you.”

“Don’ be silly, Harry. I know how yeh like a swig of whiskey now an’ again.”

“Really, it was very thoughtful, but I’m trying to cut back and—”

“Ah, I see wha’ the problem is,” he said, taking Harry by the shoulder.

“You do?” Harry asked, grateful he would not have to say it aloud.

“Yeah, Harry. It’s obvious you don’ want to drink alone. I understand, it can be lonely sometimes. I feel that way me self, at times, an’ I have old Fang here. But you don’ have anyone in the castle. I can’t imagine....”

“Er, well, that’s true but—”

“Well, don’t jus’ stand there in the cold, come back inside, an’ we’ll open her up!” Hagrid rubbed his hands together and fetched a couple glasses from the cupboard.

Harry didn’t know how he managed to keep such caring friends.

“Just a little in my tea, then,” he said, shutting the door. Just a little couldn’t hurt.

\---

It hurt.

It hurt to know what he’d been missing all this time. It hurt to be reminded why he drank to begin with. How easy it was to throw this liquid blanket over himself, to shield himself from an unfair world. It hurt to his core to know how weak he was, to admit how much he _needed_ this. It hurt to imagine how he’d get through classes this week if he let this take over his life again (oh, the material he would provide Malfoy). And, Merlin, did it ever hurt to imagine the pain in Ron and Hermione’s eyes when they found out he’d succombed.

Until that happened, Harry was content to enjoy himself.

“—an’ Fang here leaps through the air, and takes a big bite outta Professor Snape’s robes,” Hagrid laughed, red in the cheeks. “I never seen such a white backside!” He patted Fang on the back, as if the two of them were reminiscing.

“That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” Harry said, holding his whiskey close to his chest. “I nearly miss that bugger, Snape. I’m sure he’d be a pain in my arse if he were here, but I’d sure like to shake his hand for what he did.”

“Aye, he was a good man in the end.”

They touched glasses, and Hagrid poured another round.

\---

Harry threw his arms back, but managed to keep his whiskey in the glass.

“Did you hear?” he exclaimed. “Hermione’s having a baby! It’s due...I dunno... _at least_ in the next couple years.”

“Blimey! Tha’s wonderful news. Best news I heard all term!”

“I’m going to be an amazing godfather. Uncle? God-uncle.”

“Speaking of babies, what about you an’ Ginny? When’re the two of you going to welcome a wee bundle into the world?”

“Hagrid,” Harry said very seriously. He began to snort with laughter. “When it happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

They touched glasses again.

\---

Harry supposed he should feel lucky that Hagrid could down half the bottle in one sip. It made it easier for him to take his leave. They shared a sleepy goodbye, and Harry began to kick himself all the way across the lawns.

He’d deceived himself. He knew that if he had really wanted to get rid of the whiskey, he would have poured the bottle down the drain a long time ago.

“You’re an idiot,” he said out loud. “You’re a drunk, and a liar, and good for noth—”

There was a rock there. The ground punched Harry in the face.

\---

The grass was soft and well-manicured here. Where was here? Harry opened his eyes. He was on the Quidditch pitch. And his head seemed two sizes too large. Maybe that’s why his glasses were in pieces. His head had broken them.

After tonight, he told himself, he would never drink again.

He stood up, and looked towards the broom shed.

What was it he’d just resolved? _Oh, right_. After one nice broom ride, he would never drink again.

_\---_

Harry finally found Hogsmeade. It must have still been dinner hours. A family with small children was passing through the gates as he dismounted. The oldest child waved at him, and Harry stopped to shake the lad’s hand. The father steered the child away, seeming to smell the alcohol vapors.

“Oy!” Harry called angrily. “Do you _know_ who I am?”

No matter. There was the pub, and it was lively tonight—a mass of robes, some laughter, music, pint, pint, pint. He didn’t think anyone would notice him in here. Was that good? Was that bad? He couldn’t decide. He did think he wanted _some_ attention, so he complimented the bar wench on her blessings.

“No hands, Mr. Potter,” she tittered. Her ringlets bounced. Other things bounced. “What are you drinking?”

“Whatever’s on tap! I like a lot of head!”

Half the room turned and laughed. Perhaps it wasn’t as loud in here as he’d thought.

“Cheers,” Harry said, and clinked with some strangers. They invited him for a game of Wizard’s Whist, so he sat across from a brawny chap, who was shuffling cards with clever-looking fingers.

“You’re my partner,” the man said, and nodded to a wizard with a braided beard and a witch with a crow on her shoulder. “This is Larmy and Griselda. Let’s see what you got.”

“ _Let’s see what you got_ ,” the crow screeched.

\---

Harry must have blinked for a long time. Next he knew, he’d lost half his gold, but Clever Fingers told him not to worry.

“My friends will let us pay in pints this round. Inn’t that right?”

Their opponents shrugged consent, and Harry pushed away from the table.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he said, and swept off. His flagon was empty, anyway.

When Harry returned, the trump card was scaling down the table’s far leg like a tiny mountaineer.

“What’s this?” he demanded, and sloshed beer on himself. “What’s happening over there?”

“Nothing’s happening,” said Clever Fingers, pretending his wand was out to light a pipe.

“Then where’s that card going?”

“No where, mate, it’s just a card trick. Inn’t that right, Griselda?”

“ _Inn’t that right, Grizelda_?” the crow echoed.

“I am not THAT pissed.” Harry dropped the tankards onto the table. Beer went everywhere. “This is not a game!”

“I got the umpression it wos,” Griselda cackled.

Harry whipped out his wand and pointed at them. The table went still. So did everyone nearby. Before Harry could react, Griselda transformed into another crow and flapped off with her pet. Larmy bumbled away, tripping over his beard. That left Clever Fingers. Not so clever, after all, as he’d dropped his wand in surprise.

“Don’t do anything mental, mate,” he said. “We was just fooling around. We didn’t take much from you.”

“Potter, wand at ease!” Aberforth barked from behind the bar.

Harry ignored him. “Why would you take _anything_ from me? I’m Harry fucking Potter. Do you know what I’m capable of?”

“Wait—I’m sorry—it was just a bit of fun.”

“Mr. Potter?” someone was saying.

“ _What?_ ” He spun around, ready to punch Aberforth in the nose. But the man behind him was far handsomer than Aberforth.

It was Peter. Harry stared for a moment, and then asked, “What was I doing, again?”

“I think you were about to hex that man running away.” Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Clever Fingers sprint past him. “But I think it’s best you don’t in such a crowd. No need to put another blemish on your record.”

\---

Harry blinked again, and he was at the bar, conversing with Peter over the noise.

“I’m not married anymore,” he blurted. “At least, I won’t be soon.”

“You’re not married now,” Peter said sheepishly. “Your divorce papers came into the Ministry. Word gets around fast there.”

“She sent them in, did she? She didn’t even contact me? That fucking little—” Harry held his tongue. It was tough. He took a deep drink of wine, the same wine Peter ordered last time. He said, “So, you learned the news and came to find me, did you?”

“Not quite. I came to celebrate with some Ministry friends. We finally caught the last missing Death Eater, Theodore Nott Sr. It’s very exciting.”

“Is that what all this noise is about?”

Just then, a troupe of junior Aurors pushed up to the bar and called for another round. One smiled blearily at Harry, and toasted him with an invisible glass.

“I would’ve thought you knew,” Peter said. “Your friend, Ron Weasley, made the arrest. His team caught a whiff of Nott’s Apparition signature near Wiltshire, and swept right in. It was supposed to have been really impressive.”

Harry felt a pang in his heart. Why hadn’t Ron contacted him? Why weren’t they celebrating together? Ron was probably out drinking with his more respectable friends.

“So, you’re law enforcement, then?” Harry asked.

“Well, a branch thereof. But it’s exciting for everyone. Except perhaps the Malfoys,” he said with a grin.

“Sorry?”

“It was an engagement ball they crashed. Draco Malfoy and one of the Greengrass daughters, I believe. Apparently, Auror Weasley Apparated right into a giant raspberry cake, and Narcissa Malfoy spent an hour reminding him that it had cost more than his house. Poor fellow.”

Harry barely heard that last bit. The room was spinning, and something about Malfoy kept recurring in his head.

“So, that’s why I’m here,” Peter said softly. He said a lot of things softly. “But I grew tired of celebrating. I’m glad I bumped into you.”

“Yeah. Er, Peter,” he said, and put his hand on Peter’s knee.

“Yes?” Peter asked, in a way that made Harry feel like he was the center of the world.

“I’m afraid we’re out of wine.”

\---

Harry slumped on Peter’s shoulder near the pub fire. “Did you hear me before?” he was sniggering. “ _I’m Harry Potter! Do you know what I’m capable of?_ What an arse!”

“N-no,” Peter said, nursing a Blue Merlin, some odd mixture that smoked and smelled of violets. “You were confident. That’s why you’re so attractive. That’s why people love you. You just don’t see it...because you’re good natured.”

“You’re just saying that because you feel sorry for me. People can’t stand me anymore. Oy, my fucking pint is gone. Who drank it?” He plucked the Blue Merlin from Peter’s hand.

Peter didn’t seem to notice. “Are you joking? I don’t feel sorry for you...I practically worship you.” He put his hand over his mouth and turned bright pink.

“What?” Harry asked stupidly.

Peter kissed him. Harry barely even registered they were in public.

\---

Harry’s trousers pooled around his ankles. Where were his robes? Had he come with robes?

Did it matter? The stars suddenly mattered. They were terribly bright tonight. He stared up at them, trying to remember how he’d ended up outside. A hot, tight sensation consumed him, and he looked down and remembered.

“ _Lumos, Lumos,”_ Harry said frantically, waving his wand.

The light flickered on and off again, and he growled in frustration. Peter smiled with his eyes, those full lips occupied at the fattest part of Harry’s cock. He could feel it. He wanted to see it.

He stuck out his hand this time. “ _Lumos_.” A gentle glow emerged from his palm, and he touched Peter’s face. His hazel eyes were golden in the light.

Harry sighed, relaxed, and felt a sharp pain on his backside.

“Augh! What the—”

“Sorry, my rose bushes—” Peter detangled Harry from the thorny branch. “Come inside. Be careful, the place is a mess.”

Harry tripped over the threshold, and then a cardboard box, and then a pile of dusty books, before ending up in a bedroom.

Peter was somewhere beneath him, moaning, almost melodic. Harry’s ego was swelling. The sound of it, his name transcending, those soft, adoring tones meant for him—it was too much.

He shoved stack of photographs off the bed in his fervor. A camera might have gone, too. Peter reached out to save it, but Harry was taking him by the hair. He pressed Peter’s face into the pillow and lost himself for a while. He didn’t remember finishing, but he remembered Peter begging him to come, muffled and desperate.

On the way back to Hogsmeade, Harry was pretty sure he vomited in the rose bush.

\---

“I’ve sobered up, Dumbledore,” Harry said. “Jus’ give me my broom so I can go home.”

Aberforth was having none of it. “Not tonight, Potter. Not on my watch. Why don’t you rent a room, you great baby?”

“I see wha’ you’re doing...and I will not give you the sa’sfaction. This is just a money-sucking ploy.”

Aberforth didn’t look at him, just kept wiping down the bar with an old, worn towel. “Whatever you say. Go sleep in a log, if it pleases you.”

“Besides, I can’t find my gold. Can I have some bloody water?”

Aberforth slid him a tall, cold glass. Harry promptly put it against his head, and tried to calculate how long it would take to crawl to Hogwarts.

The pub was mostly abandoned now, so when a patron sat right next to Harry, he was startled. He did not look over to greet this person. He wanted to wallow in silence.

“What’ll it be?” asked Aberforth. “Last call, by the the way.”

“Raspberry cider,” said the stranger. “No, no, wait. Firewhiskey on the rocks.”

“Who gets firewhiskey on the rocks?” Harry asked, outraged. “Then there’s no more fire.”

He turned. Draco Malfoy was glowering at him.

“I guess I don’t hold my liquor like you,” he drawled, eyeing Harry’s water.

“Oy, I’ve have more than this tonight!”

“Firewhiskey on the rocks,” said Aberforth, handing Malfoy his drink. “Don’t share with Potter. He’s already had two tall waters.”

The two of them guffawed, and Harry stood up.

“I don’ have to take this. I will see you at Hogwarts, Malfoy.” He stumbled, and promptly sat back down. “I’ll see you at Hogwarts... _eventually_.”

“Ever graceful,” Malfoy said, as Aberforth wandered away. He took a slow sip of whiskey.

“I can’ feel my face,” Harry said casually.

“Oh? I think I’ve got you beat. I can’t feel my soul.”

“You got one of those?”

“Not anymore. I cut it out and put it in a box to be forgotten. Less painful that way, you see.”

“Melodramatic much? S’not as bad as all that. What’re you doing here on your wedding night, anyhow?”

“I’m engaged, not married, you dolt.”

“You don’ get to shag on your engagement night?”

“I didn’t inquire.”

“They have trains this late?”

“They do at the rate I’m paying.”

“Yeah? And carriages? Can we take one back to Hogwarts?”

“No, there aren’t any carriages this late. That’s why I’m at an inn. Unless you thought I was here because I like you.”

“Hey, I’m good company. Once you learn that...well. You’ll be smarter.”

Malfoy smirked into his drink. Perhaps Malfoy couldn’t hold his liquor, after all. The two sips he’d taken were child-sized, but he already had an attractive glow about him. Or maybe that was the result of Harry’s residual liquor.

“Hold on,” Harry said. “You’ve got a room, then?”

“Yes, I do. And you’re not stepping foot in it, the way you smell. Perhaps you can bunk up with old Dumbledore.”

Harry stood and straightened out his robes. When had those come back? Anyway, he announced, “That’s wha’ I thought. I’ll be off.” And then he was off.

“Wait, Potter.”

Didn’t know if that was Aberforth or Malfoy or someone in his head. He continued into the night. Surely, the brisk air would sober him up, get him home in one piece.

“Potter— _Harry_ ,” someone was calling.

“What.”

“Will you slow down?”

Malfoy was there, grabbing his arm. Ah, they were outside the town gates already.

“No need to hold hands,” Harry said. “I been crossing the road without my mum my whole life.”

“You can’t go back like this.”

“Wha’s it to you?”

“I’m sure you realize I have a vested interest in you. If you’re sacked for being pissed out of your mind on Hogwarts property, the Board will have no reason to keep me here. I’ll be sent home. Potter, in case you hadn’t noticed—I _don’t_ want to go home.”

Malfoy had him by the shoulders. He looked desperate, an expression Harry didn’t associate with that face.

In his state of mind, it took Harry a long time to come to the realization. “You need me to look good...more than I need you to _make_ me look good. You have to give me good evaluations no matter what! Oh, this changes everything.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “If you must look at it that way.”

\---

Harry had made this walk many times in his life. He knew logically it wasn’t more than a twenty minute outing, but tonight the road to Hogwarts stretched on for hours.

“I shouldn’ give you such a hard time about marrying Asor-tia—Astoria,” he said, his arm slung across Malfoy’s shoulders. Rather a flimsy fellow, if you asked Harry. “She’s a pretty girl. But so was Ginny, you know? And smart, and kind. Did I wanna get married? No. After everything I’d been through, jus’ wasn’t my cuppa tea. I was too broken for that domestic stuff. I mean...I wasn’t as dead-set against it as you, but if I had it to do over again...no, sir. Would have been fairer to the both of us if I’d had a spine back then.”

“Pick up your feet, you lump. Sod it, I’m just going to levitate you.”

“No, don’t. It’s humiliating. I’m good, I’m good.”

Harry straightened up, but kept one hand on Malfoy’s arm so he could walk in a straight line. “Wha’ I’m trying to say is...even a git like you deserves to be happy. Maybe even _especially_ a git like you. I mean, from my observation you’ve been doin’ what daddy says your whole life. You’ve gotta break free at some point...be Draco...not just another Malfoy.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Malfoy said, unamused.

“But I am concerned. We’ve all got but one life to live, you see. ‘Cept for Voldemort. He had a few lives. But don’ go doing like him, Malfoy. I need to sit down.” Harry veered off the road and sat at the base of a tree. “Still have nightmares about him,” he said, letting his head fall onto his chest.

“Me, too,” he thought he heard Malfoy say. Too quiet to tell. “Potter?”

His head snapped up. “ _Huh_?”

“Did you mean all that?” Malfoy asked. He was sitting next to Harry, looking very awake. “You really believe that one-life-to-live stuff? I mean...for everybody?”

“Course.”

“What about responsibility? What about loyalty? How do you please yourself, while staying true to those bonds?”

Even in his haze, Harry understood. “If your father is loyal to you, too...he’ll forgive you in the end.”

He took note of the blueness of Malfoy’s eyes, and may have fallen asleep.

\---

Harry awoke in a strange bed. The smell of coffee was in the air, and a sizzling sound emerged, like bacon in a skillet. He kept his eyes shut, still groggy, and had a long stretch. Suddenly, he felt it—another body settling next to him, large, warm, and inviting.

He was hesitant to find out who he’d gone home with last night. He couldn’t remember much. When a firm tongue made its way up the back of his neck, Harry simply had to find out.

He flipped over. Fang the dog was panting at him.

“Oh, God!” Harry said, startled. The sound of his voice sent a dagger-sharp pain through his head, and he clutched it, moaning.

“Mornin’, Harry,” Hagrid said from across the hut. He had his back to the bed, frying what looked to be half a pig’s worth of bacon and sausage.

“Hagrid,” he murmured, as loud as he could stand. “What’s going on?”

“Yeh had a rough night of it.”

“I’m sorry. Didn’t I leave? I remember leaving.”

“You left. Then I s’ppose you went to Hogsmeade. Don’ know much wha’ happened after that. Jus’ know yeh turned up with Malfoy aroun’ three in the morning.”

“Malfoy? Come again?”

“Tha’s right. Dropped you off here, he did. Said if McGonagall caught yeh in that state you’d be right fired. Don’ know why he cares, but tha’s what happened.”

“I don’t remember any of that.”

“Don’t s’ppose you do,” Hagrid said in a strange voice. “I called Ginny...through the floo...just in case she wanted to look after yeh. She didn’ seem to like that idea. Said you two had been separated for a long time...said yeh’d just gotten divorced las’ week.”

“Oh, Hagrid. I’m sorry I didn’t let you know.”

Hagrid didn’t turn away from his bacon. He sniffed, and Harry realized he was clutching a handkerchief the size of a table cloth.

“She told me to jus’ to take yer wand away,” he continued, “and lay you on yer side if you get ill. She said this happened all the time...that you’re an...an alcohol—”

Hagrid burst into tears. The tears hissed in the bacon grease. He patted his face with the handkerchief, and then stuffed it into his giant coat. “Her words, not mine, anyway. Breakfast is on.”

Hagrid served up the meat with eggs, crusty bread, and pumpkin juice. Harry found his glasses on the kitchen table (they looked to have been broken and mended), and he studied Hagrid in silence. His eyes were puffy, like he’d been weeping all morning. Fang put his head on Hagrid’s leg.

“I’m sure she said worse about me than that,” Harry probed.

“Well, maybe she did. But it’s yer well being I care about. You shoulda told me you were havin’ troubles. We’re old friends, you and me. And here I am offering yeh bottles of whiskey. It ain’t right.”

“You’re right. I should have told you. But I was so ashamed of myself. I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me, too.”

“I shoulda been helpin’ yeh. Not makin’ it worse.”

“It’s my fault. You didn’t know.” He patted Hagrid’s hand. Perhaps a bad move. Hagrid began to well up again.

“But it’s not yer fault. Everything tha’s happened to yeh. It’s too much. Yer just a boy.”

“I’m not a boy, anymore, Hagrid. I’m nothing.”

Hagrid looked at Harry like he was nutters. “What are you going on about?”

“My role has been fulfilled, that’s all. Now that all that Voldemort stuff is done—” He paused to let Hagrid shudder. “I have no place. I’m nothing. I’ll do my best to quit drinking, Hagrid, but I can’t make any promises. It helps me deal with the truth.”

Harry stuck his fork into his eggs, but before he could take a bite, Hagrid had pulled him out of his chair and into his monstrous embrace. The fork clattered to the ground and teardrops started tumbling onto Harry’s head.

“Erm, Hagrid, I can’t—”

“Don’ say that, Harry. You have a place here with me, and with Ron, and Hermione, an’ everyone else who loves you—”

“Thanks, but I’m having a hard time breath—”

“—an’ we won’t stand by and watch you pity yerself. You’re Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. And no matter what you say— _you are not done living_.”

That struck something in Harry. A distant memory? He wasn’t sure. Something grey-blue, and intense, and deeply touching. Something that asked him, _Do you really believe all that one-life-to-live stuff?_

Yes, he did.

“You’re right, Hagrid,” he said shakily. “This is nonsense. I’ve got to live my life.”

And there in Hagrid’s arms, for the first time in a very long time, Harry found himself welling up, too.

 

**7.**

 

“ _You want to talk about sexuality?”_

“ _If you don’t mind,” Harry said, twiddling his thumbs._

“ _Talking is what I’m here for. It’s unlike you, though, to volunteer a topic. Can I ask what’s different about this?”_

“ _I find it strange. It’s such a private thing, yet people seem to want to make it public business. Especially when it comes to me. Reporters like Rita Skeeter...those gossips on the WWN...their jobs revolve around digging up my sex life. I mean, ignoring my infidelities, do you think my preferences really so abnormal?”_

_The doctor tilted his head back in forth, thoughtful. “You haven’t expressed any preferences to me, Harry. In fact, you’ve shown a general lack of prejudice in your choice of sexual partner. So, to answer your question—no, that’s not entirely normal. But I wouldn’t call it unhealthy either.”_

“ _I’ve been thinking. Perhaps I chose Ginny because of what she represented to me at the time: comfort...familiarity...a built-in family. It was all so appealing back then. I think it’s a shame I settled down before I knew what else was out there.”_

_The doctor nodded, but did not take notes. Harry liked this style of therapy best. It was more like talking to a friend than being examined by someone trying to fix you._

“ _You’d think I would adore a Quidditch player on it’s own basis,” he went on. “On top of it, she’s fun! She reminds me of what I think my mum would be like. But those things are only enough on paper, you know? There’s comfort, but no passion there.”_

“ _You like passion, then,” the doctor said encouragingly. “What else do you like in a partner?”_

_Harry hesitated. “To be honest, I rather like some push-back. It’s thrilling, having something to conquer.”_

“ _Seems to align with your life choices in general.”_

_Harry laughed humorlessly. “It’s not sick?”_

“ _Sick? I couldn’t say. But I doubt it, unless you notice a problem arising from it.”_

“ _Then my sexuality is okay?”_

“ _I’m not sure I understand the question.”_

“ _It’s okay to just love—whoever—you happen to love? For whatever reasons you love them?_

_The doctor inclined his head. “It’s not my place to tell you what is acceptable for your life. But if you’re asking me my general opinion—I happen to think that’s the most okay thing possible.”_

\---

Harry knew something was wrong when every student in the Great Hall fell silent. He lowered his _Daily Prophet_ (Ron’s epic arrest had made the front page, and photograph-Ron was grinning at him, proud, cocky, and covered in cake frosting). The first thing he noticed was an owl carrying a smouldering, red envelope. The second thing he noticed was that it was flying right towards him.

Brilliant. Ginny had finally written back.

When the howler landed, Harry grabbed it and bolted for the Great Hall doors. Before he made it five feet, the letter exploded in his hand.

“HARRY,” came Ginny’s magnified voice, “ARE YOU REALLY SUCH A COWARD? YOU COULDN’T BREAK UP WITH ME IN PERSON? YOU COULDN’T HAVE WARNED OUR FRIENDS AND FAMILY WHAT WAS GOING ON? I’VE NEVER BEEN SO FURIOUS!”

Harry held it away from his face, making for the door, trying to block out the image of the hundreds of students and professors gawking at him. All the while, Ginny’s voice rang:

“ _First, you ignore me for weeks, and then you send me divorce papers without any warning, and then you put me in the position of having to force Hagrid to take care of you in my place?”_

Harry tried hurtling the howler out the open front doors of Hogwarts, but it rebounded with its wild magic, flying back into his face.

“ _He was so worried, Harry! Do you understand how awful I felt? But I couldn’t sit through that again! Not now! It was the last straw for me! You’re selfish! Unfathomably selfish!”_

Some students were poking their heads out of the Great Hall, pointing and giggling. Harry saw McGonagall’s hand sweep them back inside and shut the door. He was relieved, but now someone was coming up the front steps of Hogwarts. He hoped dearly it wasn’t Hagrid.

“ _And_ _are you even attracted to women?_ _If you’re not, you should have told me BEFORE we got married! How much time have I wasted hoping you’d sow your oats and come back to me? How stupid does that sound now that I’m saying it out loud? And what am I supposed to tell Mum and Dad? They love you so much, they’ll probably think I’M the reason you’re gone! You’ve turned me into an idiot, Harry! How can I ever forgive you? EIGHT YEARS OF MY LIFE—WASTED!_ ”

With a puff of fire and ash, the letter was gone.

That was when Harry noticed who had come up the stairs.

“Morning, Malfoy,” he sighed. He felt strangely blank. Probably the calm before the storm. He made a note not to sit in whiffing distance of Slughorn’s butterbeer tonight.

“But not a _good_ morning, it seems,” Malfoy said with a smirk. He folded his arms over his pressed white shirt, and Harry wondered if this was the first time he’d seen Malfoy in Muggle clothes. He looked right sharp in his charcoal gray trousers and matching leather belt and shoes.

“Not for me, but you’re looking in good spirits.”

“Yes, I am.” Malfoy strolled past, whistling. It was as if he hadn’t just witnessed the destruction of Harry’s integrity.

Against his better judgement, Harry stayed on Malfoy’s heels. “Er, so. I suppose, I should thank you. Hagrid told me what you did.”

“Did he?” Malfoy drawled. “You mean you don’t remember on your own?”

“I’m afraid I had a few too many pints. And a few too many other things. I remember leaving Hagrid’s and going to Hogsmeade. Nothing after that.”

“Nothing?”

They stopped at the top of the stairs, just as the first bell rang and students began to trickle out of the Hall and filter into the towers and dungeons. Malfoy was blank-faced as a bunch of first years skipped between them, sneaking glances at Harry.

“No, nothing,” Harry said. “Anyway, I’ve given that up—er, the drinking. Perhaps I’m getting too old for it. And whatever the reason you did it, thank you for getting me home safely.”

Malfoy responded by simply raising both eyebrows. Harry didn’t know what to make of this newer, quieter version of him, so he decided a retreat was in order. “See you in class, then?” he asked, backing away. “Oh, there’s something I want to try today. Odd request, but do you mind helping me out?”

“Um, what? I wasn’t planning on—” Malfoy cleared his throat. “I mean. Fine, I’ve got nothing better to do.”

“Great. See you in ten minutes.”

\---

After the success of his unusual class with the third years, Harry found himself scratching off entire units on the previous professor’s lesson plans. When the fifth years were meant to be researching topics for their anti-jinx essays, Harry took them on a detour he was thrilled about.

“But, Professor, the library is back the other way,” said a Ravenclaw girl, as they marched through the castle. Malfoy slouched after them.

“Aren’t you tired of research, Rhonda?” Harry asked.

She looked a touch disappointed. (Harry wondered if he had a Hermione replica, after all.) “I was just looking forward to the study time. O.W.L.s are this year, and there’s so much to do.”

“I think today’s lesson will be loads more informative than an hour at the library. As a matter of fact, how’s this? I’m canceling the essay.”

Rhonda’s eyes went wide. The other students began to chatter excitedly. By the time they arrived at their destination, the banks of the not-quite-frozen Great Lake, their excitement had waned to huddling together, puffing, and staring somewhat resentfully at Harry.

He spread out his arms. “This is where you’re going to need to know how to defend yourself! Out in the world. Certainly, you won’t have a library to access if you ever find yourself in trouble with a Dark wizard.”

“Go on, Professor,” said Michael Hinkley, a tall Hufflepuff boy. “When are _we_ going to bump into a dark wizard?”

“I happened to bump into a few at your age,” Harry said, shrugging as if it were an everyday occurrence. The students laughed, sending white clouds into the air. “Have you all been reading about the capture of Theodore Nott Sr, the former Death Eater? He just strolled into a party, where any of you could have been.”

Malfoy eyes narrowed, though he seemed more intrigued than bothered.

“My point is, you never know what can happen. I want your anti-jinx lesson to be useful, so we’re going to start with dueling.”

“Wizard’s duels!” Hinkley shook his shivering friend. “Can Jim and I be partners?”

“No partners today. You’re all on your own.”

“How can can we duel on our own?”

“We’re not going to have _wizard’s_ duels,” Harry said. “Those are too formal for my purposes. Today there are no rules but one—” He pulled out his wand, and motioned Malfoy to do the same. “— _to survive a battle against two war veterans_.”

Hinkley gulped. “Are you joking?”

Harry bent his knees to a fighting stance. “Do I look amused?”

Malfoy certainly did. “Potter, I don’t know that the Board of Governors would approve of this.”

“The Board wants well-educated students. As long as no one is hurt, what’s the harm? And if you’ve all reviewed your list of anti-jinxes, you’ll be fine. Prepare!”

Hinkley looked around at his classmates. “Professor Potter, I don’t know—”

“I said _prepare_.” Harry flicked his wand, and force-pushed Hinkley back into his friend. “Counter me this time, Mr. Hinkley.”

The boy grinned, preparing. The surrounding students gave them a wide berth, just in time for Malfoy to shrug and shout, “ _Locomotor mortis_!”

Hinkley deflected it easily.

Harry walked around the back of him and cast, “ _Locomotor wibbly_!”

Hinkley spun, making a circle around himself with his wand. He was now protected from all sides with a glittering force field, looking impressed with himself. “Is that all from a couple veterans?” he asked.

Harry trained his eyes on Malfoy, asking a silent question. Malfoy seemed to understand.

“ _Dileo disseptum_!” Harry cried.

The force field shattered like glass. While Hinkley looked around, surprised, Malfoy ran up and poked his wand into the boy’s back.

“Magic isn’t the only protective measure,” Harry said, as Hinkley put his arms up in surrender. “Be aware with your _eyes_ , too. Well done, five points to Hufflepuff.”

The other students were not as confident as Hinkley, which seemed to affect their performance. Hinkley’s friend, Jim, was caught off-guard with a Babbling Curse, and couldn’t speak any spells the entire time. Another boy, a Ravenclaw, kept stopping to read notes he’d penned onto his arm.

Harry laughed, jinxing him with a body-bind. “Can’t stop to cheat in a battle, can you? Rhonda Wilkes, you’re next. Prepare!”

Harry was surprised by the girl who had wanted to spend class at the library. Rhonda burst forth with a Jelly Legs curse the moment Harry pointed his wand.

Harry deflected it, and blinked at her.

“If I know danger is imminent, why should I wait to be attacked?” she asked.

Malfoy laughed. “That’s why I like Ravenclaws. _Incendio_!”

Between them, Rhonda conjured a thin sheet of ice from the air. Malfoy’s fire engulfed it, and the spells canceled out.

“Use all your surroundings,” Harry told her. “What if there had been less moisture in the air? You’d be crisp right now. Instead, look where you are.”

Rhonda looked around frantically. When the squid began to splash in the lake, she nodded to herself.

“Ready?” Harry crouched, and slowly drew his wand back, letting her take note of how powerful his spell would be. “ _Incendio_!”

The students backed away as an enormous flame erupted from his wand; it was so hot and red that Harry worried he had gone too far. Rhonda did not scream. She steadily drew up her hands, seeming to forget about her wand, and pushed them through the air, as if to mimic a wave.

The lake followed her motion. A wall of water swept past her. It swallowed Harry’s fire, and didn’t stop there. He and Malfoy were taken by the icy water, losing sense of space, not to mention their wands, and found themselves lying in the flooded grass a moment later.

Harry coughed up lake water, and groped for his glasses.

Malfoy pushed them into his hand. “This is your idea of a good lesson?” he groaned, looking at Harry from behind a sheet of silvery hair.

“If _that’s_ the result, then yes.” Harry pointed.

Every student was cheering for Rhonda, patting her back and shaking her hand. Harry shuffled up to them, sopping wet, breathing hard, but immensely proud.

“I’m _so_ sorry, Professor,” Rhonda said nervously.

“Don’t apologize. You did exactly what you should have. Twenty points to Ravenclaw.”

“Thank you. But I wouldn’t have known to do that if you hadn’t given me a hint. What if you’d really been attacking me?”

“When you can’t think of any other defense, try to smack the curse back. Like this.” Harry swung his wand rather like cricket bat. “If your magical energy is strong enough, you’ll deflect it right back onto your opponent.”

“Professor Flitwick said that was dangerous,” said Hinkley, still looking at Rhonda with stars in his eyes.

“True enough. If the spell is very destructive—like the Blasting Curse, for example—you run the risk of failing. Your wand could explode in your hand. That’s why it’s a last resort. But much of the time, it’s sufficient.”

“A better bet might be running the other direction,” Malfoy added, to their amusement.

“We all have our strategies,” Harry said. He stared at Malfoy for a long moment, at loss for what he was feeling. Then he came to his senses. “Erm, everyone thank Mr. Malfoy for his help. He’s not as mean as he likes us to think.”

After the students had gone, Malfoy began to wander away, too. Harry followed. He felt he had something not-quite-formed to express.

“It’s like you’re asking to get fired,” Malfoy remarked, scanning himself with his wand. His clothes and hair flapped, as if by a passing breeze, and then were dry.

“Going to report me?”

“You really don’t remember the other night.”

Harry shook his head. “Is there something about it you’re not telling me?”

“No,” he said, too blankly for Harry to believe him. “I don’t give Merlin’s dong about taking notes on you, but prepare for some angry letters should any of those students write to Mummy that you were cursing them in class.”

Malfoy seemed to tire of watching him shiver, so he swished his wand. A breath of warm air overcame Harry. It smelled delightful, like an ocean breeze, but no ocean Harry had ever visited. He patted himself, feeling none of the residual dampness a normal drying charm would leave.

“What was that charm? Where’d you learn it?”

“Somewhere much better than here.” Malfoy squinted into the cold wind that was picking up, and seemed to have enough. He nodded at Harry and started toward the castle.

“Oy,” Harry called after him. “It’s nice to have some adult interaction. Why don’t you—I don’t know—help out in class more often?”

Malfoy did not stop. “Why should I take orders from you? Just because I walked home with you does not make me your pet.”

“I’m not ordering you. I’m asking you.”

He waved a flippant hand. Harry wasn’t fluent in Malfoy’s language, but reckoned that was an affirmative.

\---

Over the next few weeks, Harry gave his first exams since writing his own lesson plans. He was astounded at the improvement a hands-on approach had made. After grading a few sets, he raced up to the Headmistress’s chambers.

“I’m sorry to intrude, Professor,” he said, embarrassed to have found McGonagall already in her nightgown and cap. “I’m just so pleased with these marks.”

“I understand, Mr. Potter. Come in.” Soon she was looking closely at a pile of exams in her lap, stopping to assure him, “I remember how gratifying my first successful lessons were. Tea?”

“No, no. I’m jumpy enough as it is.”

She poured some for herself. “The marks are impressive, but these aren’t terribly easy scenarios, are they?” She was referring to the practical exams Harry had given his fourth years. “Having students battle boggarts as they awaken from a magically induced sleep?”

“I wanted them to develop instinctive responses, not just to reference book answers. Everyone passed that section, too. Though...I do worry my tactics might be frowned upon by some people.”

“The Ministry?” she asked over her teacup. “I won’t be writing to them. I haven't trusted their involvement in education since they sent Madam Umbridge to fix things around here.”

Harry grimaced at the memory. “What about the parents...or the Board...?”

“You’ve been a bit extreme, but I’m willing to take chances as far as Defense is concerned. I’m proud of you.”

“Be proud of them. I’m just the messenger.”

“I see you learning and growing just as much as the students, Harry. Not to mention, I’m happy the two of you have found a way to get along through educating them.”

“I’m sorry, the two of whom?”

“You and Draco Malfoy. He’s been helping you with your practical lessons, has he not? Dumbledore is not the only Head of Hogwarts to have eyes around this school.” Harry could have sworn she winked.

“I see,” he said, shifting in his seat. “If it’s inappropriate I can stop.”

“Nonsense. No more inappropriate than me hiring a mildly unstable wizard on Ministry probation.”

Harry had to smile. “Well, if we’re going to mention that, I think I will have some tea.”

\---

Late that night, Harry sat by the fire grading more exams and crunching on the last of ten chocolate biscuits. His appetite had doubled since he’d stopped drinking. The good news was it was starting to show in his musculature. The not-as-good news was it was starting to show in his gut.

There was a tap. He looked up to find giant barn owl blinking at him through the window.

“Hello, who are you?” he asked, welcoming it in. The owl dropped a note, and flew over to the empty plate. “You look pitiful. There’s more in the cupboard. Just wait a bit.”

Harry didn’t recognize the owl or the handwriting, so he didn’t delay opening the letter.

  
_Harry,_

_I’m sorry if it’s inappropriate to write to you at Hogwarts, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever see you in town again._

_It was a pleasure having you in my home, and a memorable night, too. Though, I am sorry about the state things were in. I’ve cleaned up a bit since then. I hope to invite you out for dinner whenever you’re free. Do let me know._

_Affectionately yours,_

_Peter  
_

Harry didn’t know what to make of this. He felt an unnamed affection towards Peter. He recalled some hazy, gentle memories. And some that were less gentle.

He reread the letter. After each statement, Harry closed his eyes and let the full meaning wash over him.

_I wasn’t sure I’d see you in town again._

In his mind’s eye, there was a loud pub, a lady with a crow, and some quick fingers with cards. He turned, and there was Peter’s smile.

_It was a pleasure having you in my home, and a memorable night, too._

There were rose bushes in front of a small, white cottage on the skirts of Hogsmeade. Harry recalled the prickly wounds he had found on his arse in the shower. He recalled the graceless blowjob and the way he’d held Peter down, fucking him mindlessly.

The last bit concerned him. _Affectionately yours_. What kind of casual fuck would address him like that? Harry lay down on his sofa, and mulled over the haziest memory of all.

\---

“ _You’re not leaving me, are you?” Peter murmured, reaching out from the bed._

“ _Got students to look after....”_

“ _It’s Saturday. And it’s two in the morning. Stay, I’ll make you my mum’s oatcakes when we wake up.”_

“ _Can’t, sorry,” Harry said, pulling his robes over his head._

“ _Will I see you again, Harry Potter?”_

_Peter was looking at him from under his eyelashes. Something was there, and Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen it. Utter adoration. It sent a chill to his groin._

“ _All the time,” Harry said, and kissed him._

\---

Peter had looked like a worshipper at an idol. Harry had found a sickening appeal to it. But he didn’t return the feelings. Any desire on his part stemmed from something shamefully egocentric.

Was it wrong for Peter to want this sort of relationship? Was it wrong for Harry to accept it so readily?

He thought he should write to Doctor Bullstaff for advice. When he took out a quill and parchment, he found himself writing something else.

  
_Peter,_

_I have business in Hogsmeade next week. Let’s meet for dinner._

— _H  
_

He gave it to the barn owl (with a biscuit he’d fetched from the former liquor cabinet) and retired early.

Lying in bed, Harry tried to fill in the holes in his memories. He’d met Peter at the pub after gambling, and they’d drunk their fill and adjourned to Peter’s cottage. He’d then gone back to the pub and met Malfoy, who’d walked him home. But why had Malfoy done that?

Harry rolled over and gazed out the window. There was a glow in a nearby tower, on the third floor near the trophy room. He knew it was the window to Malfoy’s office, but he’d paid it little mind until now. The glow was not a from a torch or a hearth, as it did not flicker. It was a steady, white glow, like sunlight. He sat up in bed. If he squinted, he could see the silhouette of the black flower against a backdrop of light, which seemed to emanate from the dome where it lived.

This triggered a memory. The moon had been glowing behind Malfoy as he sat next to Harry in the woods.

\---

“ _Shall I let you sleep on me or shall I hex you?”_

“ _Hex. Wait, sleep. From whose perspective is the essay...?”_

_One eye opened. Harry’s head was on Malfoy’s thigh. Closed again._

“ _I should hex off your little scar.”_

_A wooden thing tapped Harry on the head._

“ _Stoppit, I like my scar where it is.”_

“ _Well. Lucky for you, so do I.”_

_\---_

The skeletons of his memories were fleshing out. He recalled Malfoy running after him in the night, worried Harry would lose his job. No! Worried he, _Malfoy_ , would lose his job. He looked terrified over thought of being shipped home to marry Astoria Greengrass.

More images flashed in his mind: Harry slumping against a tree...Harry telling Malfoy he deserved happiness...Malfoy crouching, asking Harry, “ _Do you really mean it?_ ”

Yes, he had.

Harry stared harder at the glowing flower in the other tower. Was Malfoy there? Did Malfoy remember all this and choose to hide it?

At last, Harry recalled what had happened moments before he had fallen into a drunken sleep, before Malfoy had levitated his body and pulled him to Hagrid’s by the collar, the whole time humming a cheerful, foreign tune.

\---

“ _How was the engagement ball?”_

“ _Lavish.”_

“ _Cake?”_

“ _Loads of it. Mainly on the walls. And Weasley.”_

“ _Did you dance?”_

“ _With no one in particular.”_

_Harry grabbed his wrist. “Why don’t you like her?”_

“ _What? Speak up.”_

“ _Why don’t you like the girl you’re marrying?”_

_Malfoy was silent for a long time. His thumb may have stroked against the edge of Harry’s hand. Too woozy to tell. At last, Malfoy said, “...because I can’t.”_

\---

Had that meant what Harry thought it meant?

There was movement in Malfoy’s office.

Harry snatched his glasses off the nightstand. He shoved them on in time to see a slender hand emerge in the dark room and lift the glass dome. Malfoy appeared in clear view, walking around the desk, staring at the flower, almost longingly.

Malfoy reached out. Harry held his breath. He thought the flower might shrivel, or reel back and bite. Neither happened. It remained still, like any common flower, as Malfoy stroked a deep black petal.

Though he was not smiling, Harry thought he looked happy.

**8.**

The shop clerk was ecstatic.

“I make commission, you know,” he said, carefully folding the tissue paper. “People have looked at this broom from the street, come in wanting to hold it, haggled with us. No one’s ever bought one till now—and on my watch!”

Harry was pleased he’d bought the broom from this lad, and not the crabby old witch who frequented the Spintwitches counter. His brightness made Harry optimistic about his decision.

The shop clerk tied up the box with a gold ribbon. “You said this was a gift? Where shall I send it?”

\---

By the time Harry arrived at the cafe, Ron and Hermione had already finished the bread basket.

“We?” Ron was saying. “She had downed half of it by the time I put my napkin in my lap.”

“More bread, please,” Harry told a passing waiter.

“With butter,” added Hermione. She gave them a flat look. “I grew up with health nuts for parents, and I’d like to enjoy every one of my cravings while I can justify it.”

“It means I don’t have to eat fiber cakes all the time, so no one’s loss,” Ron said.

“At least you both have an excuse.” Harry nodded to Hermione's belly. It was too big to hide behind robes now. “I’ve been eating everything in sight since I put the bottle down, just to have something to do.”

Ron made a strange noise, only to bury his nose in the menu without a word. Hermione put her hand on Ron’s arm, as if to console him. For what, Harry couldn’t tell. It seemed to do the trick.

“You doing all right, Harry?” he asked.

“Yeah. I’m doing well.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“ _Ron_.” Hermione looked pointedly at him, but then acted like nothing had happened. “The salmon quiche sounds good.”

There was awkward silence until the waiter took their orders, after which point Ron and Hermione began trading meaningful looks.

Harry was starting to get annoyed at their exclusion of him, so he said, “Ron, tell me about the arrest.”

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Merlin, I wish you’d have been there!”

They were happily sharing pudding by the time Ron finished his story.

“And it’s a good thing I suggested triple-layering the wards,” he said, mouth filled with cherry cobbler. “First Nott broke through mine, and then Peabody’s, and it took Parkinson’s wards to bring him to his knees. Parkinson! Can you believe it?”

“She was a feisty one,” Harry recalled from training.

“I still can’t believe Pansy’s an Auror,” Hermione bemoaned. “What’s her game?”

“She’s not that bad,” said Ron. “Though, I reckon she got some sick pleasure from breaking up Malfoy’s engagement party. Made sure to drench Astoria Greengrass in punch!”

“Were you two invited to their wedding?” Harry asked, suddenly recalling the frilly green invitation. “Don’t know why they’d want me there.”

Ron nodded. “I just imagine the Malfoys are out to prove they’re aligned with certain people and not others. I heard every Order member got one.”

“Clever them,” Hermione said. “Ron swears by that expensive wizarding food, though, otherwise we wouldn’t be going. Speaking of Malfoy, how are you putting up with him these days?”

“He’s not so bad either,” Harry said, blushing for reasons he couldn’t place (or didn’t want to).

Hermione lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you said he was making it hard for you to teach?”

“He was. But lately he’s been almost...nice. He’s being quite a help with my lessons. The other day, I was going over the Patronus charm with my advanced sixth years—”

“That’s not standard curriculum at Hogwarts, is it?” she asked around a bite of ice cream.

“No, but I’m trying to introduce it. Anyway, Malfoy wanted to cast his own Patronus for the students after they complained about the difficulty of the spell. And when he cast it...nothing happened.”

Ron’s head shot up. “It didn’t take form?”

“Barely a wisp,” Harry said, sensing his friend’s delight.

“Bet he was upset!”

“No, it wasn’t like that. I think he knew what would happen. He told the students that even having trained with some of the most powerful wizards of our time, even _he_ still hadn’t mastered the spell. It made the lot of them realize if they had any chance to summon a Patronus, they shouldn’t wait until they left Hogwarts to start figuring it out.”

Hermione patted Harry’s arm, as if to tell him she was pleased with the progress he’d made, while Ron wiped his mouth, sniggering. “I heard he’s bent.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “ _Really_ , Ron, how sensitive of you.”

But Harry was listening closely.

“He was always so poncy at school! Can’t believe it took Parkinson telling me to see it. That’s why he walked out on that engagement ball early, I bet. Probably ran off with a serving boy or something.”

“It’s none of our business,” Hermione insisted.

“I’ll drink to that,” Harry said, lifting his water and winking at her. This did not have the desired effect. At the mention of drink, Ron went still. “It’s just an expression. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Of course, you didn’t.” Hermione gathered her cloak and bag. “Come on, I’ve got errands.”

Ron raised a hand. “Hold on, I’ve got to say something.”

“Ron, let’s not—”

“I’m serious, ‘Mione.”

“Fine,” she said, and dropped her purse on the table. She looked at Harry like she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. “I’ll say it. I put an enchantment on your liquor cabinet.”

Harry had to let that sink in. “You what?”

“Once when you floo-called us, I saw a bottle of whiskey in the room and got worried. The next day, I floo’ed into your chambers to take it. At the last moment, I thought that was a stupid idea. You’d get suspicious or just buy a new bottle. So I decided to just...enchant the liquor cabinet to see how often you opened it. If things got out of hand, I would step in to help. Otherwise, I’d leave you to it. I know, it sounds a little awful—”

“It _is_ awful.” Ron’s agitation was now clear as day. “I gave her an earful when I found out, Harry.”

“Well, I’m _sorry_ ,” Hermione said. “Harry, I felt like I was abandoning you. You’d been doing so well at our house, and seeing that alcohol...I thought I’d thrown you to the wolves leaving you alone at Hogwarts.”

“Anyway,” Ron told Harry, “we know you’ve been doing a lot of digging in that cabinet lately. You’re looking a bit red in the cheeks right now, actually.”

Harry was red because he was holding in laughter. “You’re unbelievably meddlesome, Hermione.”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll remove the charm right away.”

Now Harry was laughing full out. “I can’t believe you were spying on me.”

“We want to help, but we realize this isn’t the way to do it,” Ron said, looking alarmed at Harry’s reaction. “Would you come back to our house over the Christmas holiday? We want to give it another go.”

“I’ll come for Christmas, but not because I’m a drunk.” Harry toasted his water again. As if to prove his point, he finished the glass in front of them. “Like I told you, I’m doing well.”

Hermione’s lips thinned. “I’ve sensed how much you’ve been in and out of that cupboard recently, and there was nothing in there but a huge bottle of whiskey when I looked. You’ve got to be honest with yourself.”

“I am, and that’s why I invited you here today.” Harry fished in his pocket. “Since I’ve been making progress, I thought it was about time I acknowledged the people who have been affected by my problem. I’m not much of a letter writer, so I wanted to give you this.”

Harry gave her a necklace made with a leather cord and a large, curved tooth for a pendant. She read, “Congrats, Harry. 35 days.”

“You...you haven’t had a drink in thirty-five days?” Ron asked.

Harry couldn’t stop smiling. “Hagrid’s been helping me. Every week at tea, I let him know I’m another week sober. The other day he gave me this.”

“Why a tooth?” Hermione asked, turning it over in her hand.

“According to Hagrid, when a Bamboozle loses it’s first baby tooth, it means good luck. It happened to one of his on my thirty-fifth day, so Hagrid thought it would be a fine memento. Now I’d like you to have it.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said, looking immensely guilty.

Harry grabbed her hand. “I know what a burden I’ve been. And you’ve continued to stick by me, even when my problem made your lives Hell. I want you to know I’m grateful to have you as my friends.”

Ron sniffled, smacked Harry on the shoulder, and said, “I’m proud of you, mate.”

“Thanks! I want to be a good example for my new godson.”

“Goddaughter, actually,” Hermione said, and for some reason that made Harry’s heart swell with joy. She grew serious. “Harry, I don’t mean to pry. But the liquor cabinet has been opening an awful lot. Have you been tempted?”

“I did relapse on that whiskey you saw. It’s long gone. But since that night, I haven’t had a nip. If you must know why I’ve been opening it, it’s to get my biscuit fix. It’s a biscuit cabinet now, are you happy? Can’t you tell how fat I’m getting?”

“Harry,” she laughed, and leaned over to hug him, “you look good with an extra few pounds.”

After swearing to embark on group diet the moment Hermione had her baby, they bundled up and joined her on a trek to find Merlin’s Playpen, some kind of specialty baby store.

“They’re supposed to have a great selection of toys that stimulate mind and magic at an earlier age!”

“We don’t need special toys,” Ron said, putting an arm around her. “With you as a mum, our child could play with rocks and glue, and it’d still be the brightest kid at Hogwarts.”

“You’re very sweet, but no harm in investigating. Now, if I could just find the entrance....”

Harry had stopped searching. Out of the corner of his eye he had noticed Peter crossing the street with an armful of groceries. He was walking towards his cottage, paying Harry no mind.

“Oy, let’s look back this way,” Harry said to his friends.

Perhaps he should have kept his mouth shut. Peter turned, and spotted him immediately.

“Oh, you’re in town early,” he chirped, brushing past a couple warlocks selling questionable jewelry.

“Er. Yeah. Lunch with my friends. This is—”

“I know who they are. Hello, Auror Weasley. Brilliant arrest, by the way. And Mrs. Granger-Weasley, you gave a fine defense for Harry back in August.”

After shaking both of their hands (Ron puffing up with pride, and Hermione trying very hard to look modest), Peter greeted Harry with a kiss on the cheek. “I thought I’d make us dinner, rather than going out,” he said, acknowledging his shopping.

Harry gave a pained smile. He was unable to look at anything but the parsnip stems poking out of Peter’s bag while he asked, “Do you know where this Merlin’s Playpen place is? Hermione needs, erm...to go there....”

She seemed to take note of Harry’s discomfort. “Oh! Yes! Would you mind helping me find it? Mister...?”

“Phillipa,” Peter said, already leaning into Hermione like they were old friends. “And it’s back this way, behind the haunted tree.”

“Oh, I know where I’ve seen you,” Hermione said as they walked off. “You work for the Investigations Bureau. How do you know Harry?”

“Well, I suppose it’s early for labels, but....”

It wasn’t until they were out of earshot that Harry could look Ron in the eye. He looked less horrified and more concerned.

“He’s seems...nice, Harry.”

“He is. But I barely know the bloke—”

He grabbed Harry’s shoulder. “Hold on. It’s okay. This stuff with Ginny makes so much sense now.”

“That isn’t the entire reason we split up, but—”

“Hey. And that stuff I said about Malfoy—in the cafe—I was only joking. I would never make fun of you, mate. Really, it’s—”

“Ron,” he said forcefully. “I know you better than that. I’m not upset. I would just rather have told you differently.”

“So, you’re...?”

“I’m Harry. I’m still Harry.”

Ron clapped him on the back, and they started after Hermione and Peter. “Well, that was never in question.”

\---

Harry could hear Peter chopping like mad.

“You hungry?” Peter asked. “I’m sure you are. I’m sorry, I’m just so disorganized today.”

“No hurry.”

Harry was exploring the cottage. No wonder he’d tripped over himself the first visit. Peter was poorly stocked in candles and lanterns. Many other necessities were missing, too. The little blue kitchen held only a few plates, two wine glasses, and a fistful of cutlery. The pantry was bare, except for a flat of bottled water and an old pot of honey. As for the drawing room, the large windows and the lone, dusty sofa made it look gigantic, though it was no bigger than Harry’s drawing room at Hogwarts. The only other fixture was a cardboard box with a long-lens camera on top.

“You said you grew up here?” Harry asked. “Where’re all your things?”

“I told you, I cleaned up,” Peter said from the kitchen. “I’ve been wanting to start anew, so I donated loads of my family’s old things.”

The chopping continued.

“Are your garden photographs in this box, then?”

“Hm?” Peter popped into the drawing room, wielding a chef’s knife. Harry reached for the box, and Peter’s other hand jetted out. “Hold on, leave those be. They’re actually old family photos. But I can’t bear to look at them.”

Harry found that odd, but didn’t press. He joined Peter in the kitchen, transfiguring a few more candles from some matches to combat the coming night. He pushed them into the air to hover over the dinner table.

“You sure you won’t have any wine?” Peter asked over his shoulder. _Chop, chop, chop._

“Trying to cut back.”

“All right, but there’s plenty.”

He was finished chopping scallions, but was making a bigger mess of the parsley.

“Let me help,” Harry said, and slid in behind him, grasping Peter’s hand around the knife handle. He rested his groin against Peter’s backside, feeling him suck in a shaky breath, as they began to chop.

“I’m awful, I know,” Peter said softly. “Actually, this is my first time cooking a meal like this.”

“Stuffed chicken for your first time? Bit difficult.”

“Do you cook?”

“I would often cook for my relatives, growing up. There, steady and slow like this. No need to mangle the poor herbs.”

“It’s a wonder you were poor at Potions, then.”

“How do you know that?”

“It was in your fan magazine, when I was a child,” Peter admitted.

It was still novel being intimate with someone of a like height. Harry rested his chin on Peter’s shoulder, which seemed to excite the other man terribly.

“Was this before the world loved you?” Peter asked about his relatives.

“It was before _anyone_ loved me.”

Peter turned his head, and looked at Harry curiously. It was almost like he was trying to hold something back.

 _Don’t say it_ , Harry pleaded.

When Peter opened his mouth, Harry couldn’t risk it. He shut him up with a kiss. Then he dropped the knife with a clatter, and pushed Peter against the counter.

He spent the rest of the the evening bending Peter over the kitchen table, the stuffed chicken forgotten. Peter moaned and smiled, and Harry wondered how long he would keep doing this.

\---

The corridor was normally darker than this. As Harry passed his office on the way to his quarters, he noticed torchlight spilling out from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. He was not in the mood to root out Peeves or any snogging students, so he nearly strolled on. Then he recognized the muffled voice behind the door.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

Harry only meant to peek. When he stuck his head into the room, he saw the remnants of an evaporating, blue mist.

Malfoy was at the center of the classroom, and all the desks had been pushed to one side. He relaxed his fighting stance.

“Wasn’t sure if that was a motivational farce or not,” Harry said.

Malfoy whipped around. He was about two shades paler than usual.

Harry slipped in, and added, “You having trouble with your Patronus, I mean to say.”

“Did I wake you?”

“No, I was out. What are you doing in here?”

His mouth twisted. “I wasn’t aware the classroom had midnight reservations. I’ll get out of your way.”

Harry held up a hand. “I meant why _here_ and not your office?”

“Oh. Logistical issues,” Malfoy said, acknowledging the large space he had created. “Perhaps it was a mistake to bring so many personal items to my office. I didn’t want to knock anything over, so I came here.”

“I see. Need a hand?”

“Don’t waste your effort. Professor Snape first taught me this charm when I was fifteen. It’s never taken form, and it only seems to get worse with time.”

“Have you tried changing your memory?”

“One hardly has an abundance of perfectly happy memories.”

“It doesn’t have to be as literal as that.” Harry touched his chin, aware Malfoy was watching him closely. “Try something silly or exciting. It’s more about clarifying the happiness than isolating a particular memory.”

Skeptically, Malfoy crouched. He let out a breath, growing still, choosing Harry’s desk as a focal point. It was as if there were a Dementor there, about to teach a lesson.

“ _Expecto Patronum!_ ” he said, jabbing his wand towards his foe.

A bright light emerged. It shot out, floated for a moment, and vanished just as quickly.

“There you are,” Malfoy mumbled, not turning around. “Hopeless.”

“Hold on, let me show you something.”

Harry came up behind Malfoy and grasped his wand hand, much like he had Peter’s hand earlier. He put his other hand on Malfoy’s hip. Malfoy grew very still, perhaps not even breathing.

“Is this okay?” Harry asked quietly.

“Just...show me.”

“All right. It’s a soulful spell. It’s got to come out with some _oomph_. So draw back like this. _Softer_ ,” Harry told him, noting how eager Malfoy’s casting practices were. “It’s not as if you’re about to curse someone. And then—it sounds silly—but you’ve got to _push_ , as if you’re pushing with your very core.”

They swayed there until Malfoy mastered the motion. When Harry stepped away, he realized how pleasant Malfoy’s scent had been, light like ocean air and faintly of coffee.

“All right,” Malfoy whispered to himself. “Draw back and push...draw back....”

He closed his eyes, and when he _pushed_ his hand traveled through the air like it was gliding across silk, and the breath that came out of him seemed like it pulled with it a small part of his soul. “ _Expecto Patronum_ ,” he said, barely making a sound.

This time when the mist emerged, it was tall and nearly corporeal. If it was a particular figure, Harry couldn’t make it out. It hovered, and fizzled out.

“Not bad,” Malfoy said, with a half smile. “Perhaps I’ll allow you to keep teaching at Hogwarts.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but the resentment was not there. All he could think about was how good it had felt to touch Malfoy’s hip and his hand and to barely brush Malfoy’s ear with his nose. Not just good, but easy. Harry was searching for an excuse to do it again.

“I should leave you to it,” he said instead, backing away.

“Potter,” Malfoy said. He sounded troubled. “The last evaluation is Friday. And then I’ll be leaving.”

“Ah. Don’t know if I should be happy or sad.”

“Happy, of course.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll have your class to yourself, after that. And I imagine the Ministry probation office will look kindly on your success.”

Harry took the torch off the wall, handing it to Malfoy as they left. The light cast a pale flicker in Malfoy’s eyes that reminded Harry of those haunting memories from the other night.

“Sad,” he said, before Malfoy departed.

“What?”

“I’ll be sad. However difficult you were at the start of the term, you really made up for it. We make a good team, you and me.”

“Funny, that. Until recently, I’ve never worked well with anyone.”

“I wonder what made the difference?”

Malfoy gave him a slow, reserved smile. It was the first true smile Harry had ever seen on that face, and it was hauntingly beautiful. “Goodnight, Potter.”

“Goodnight,” Harry said, and stood there until he lost sight of the torch.

 

**9.**

Harry knocked. Once again, no answer.

It was like Malfoy to be inconsiderate, but Harry had hoped after the moment they shared in the Defense classroom Malfoy would be polite, even eager to see him. What’s more, Harry had cancelled his afternoon classes to answer these summons.

He knocked again, feeling like a buffoon. This was probably a big game to Malfoy. He was probably enjoying the way Harry was shuffling around in the corridor as patient and attentive as a dog. Well, if Malfoy didn’t answer this time, Harry thought he would take his attentiveness to Peter.

One more knock. There was a muffled shout inside.

Harry whipped out his wand, and cracked the door. The office was more cluttered than usual with a scattering of mostly empty moving boxes. Otherwise, no Malfoy. The door to his private chambers was shut. The shouting came from there, clearer now.

“Draco! I grow tired of chasing after you. Come to the fireplace.”

Harry couldn’t resist creeping towards the voice. He pressed his ear against the bedroom door, and knew he could relax his wand when he confirmed the person’s identity.

“The wedding is tomorrow, and you haven’t contacted me in a fortnight! I have half a mind to send a house-elf after you.”

No response from Malfoy.

“Draco, I can see your shadow under the door. Get in here before I cut off your entire allowance. You know I’ll do it.”

Harry got a sinking feeling in his gut, realizing he had been caught. He hesitated. Then he pushed open the door to find Lucius Malfoy staring triumphantly at him from within the fireplace. The man’s expression fell.

“I don’t think he’s here,” Harry said.

“And just what are _you_ doing here?” Lucius spat.

“I have a meeting with Draco, not that it’s any of your business. I guess he’s running late.”

“Well,” he said in his soft, suspicious way. “When he decides to show up, do tell him to contact his father.”

“Certainly.”

The fire vanished.

“Certainly not,” Harry amended.

He edged into Malfoy’s bedchambers, interested to see if it was decorated as extravagantly as the office. There was a giant bed with a carved headboard, unmade and piled with a downy duvet and several downy pillows. Breakfast on a tray floated above it, half-eaten. The room also housed a wardrobe, the fireplace where Lucius’ head had been, and a giant white pelt for a rug.

Harry was about to leave, when he heard, “Is he gone?”

The duvet moved, and Malfoy emerged looking flushed and rumpled and less than fully clothed. He bounded toward the fireplace in his underwear, while Harry focused on the sudden appearance of his arse. It was a round, pale, wonderful thing that poked out from the lower hem of his tiny briefs.

“Forgot to put this back after my fire last night,” Malfoy said, conjuring a solid black fireplace screen. He mussed his hair, looking exhausted, and then meandered to the wardrobe with his hands on his head and the air of someone who was often half-dressed in front of his former enemies. “Let me get decent, Potter.”

“I’ll wait in your office.”

“Don’t we usually meet after dinner?” he asked absently, rummaging through his collection of trousers.

Harry stood between the two rooms, talking more to Malfoy’s arse than Malfoy. “I got your note. Said you wanted to meet earlier.”

“Did I?” he sighed. “I suppose I did. All this wedding nonsense is putting me off my rocker.”

Malfoy’s state of dress, once they adjourned to the office, was even more Muggle today. He wore some faded jeans and a plain gray tee-shirt. He hadn’t slicked back his hair or bothered with shoes and socks.

“You’re looking off today,” Harry remarked. He was referring to the way Malfoy sat cross-legged in his chair, leaning his cheek on his fist like a petulant child.

Where Malfoy would usually put a snappy remark, he instead put an “umph.”

“Bad news?” Harry tried.

“You heard him.”

“About the money? I mean, you’ve got a job. What’s the big deal?”

“My standard of living requires a little more than a menial career. I mean, look—” He gestured to all his collectibles. “Besides, I’m only paid for this job as long as I’m stationed at Hogwarts. Otherwise, it’s largely ceremonial in role.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of other jobs you qualify for.”

“It’s not just about money, is it? It’s about everything. My father’s view of me, my mother and her kin, the things I won’t be able to do if I’m married—the things I’ll _have_ to do.” He looked green at the mention of it. “How do I fix this?”

Harry thought the question was rhetorical, but he cleared his throat, thinking about the night Malfoy brought him to Hagrid’s. “I would conjure up some tea and offer my advice, but I think I’ve already given it.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “You do remember that night, then.”

“Yeah. It all came back to me.”

This time, his voice softened. “Everything?”

Harry shrugged, _more or less_.

“Well.” Malfoy grabbed a feather quill, choosing to frown at it rather than look Harry in the eye. “I didn’t want to admit it, but you were...right. For once. I have only the one life and I should really spend it how I like. If I want to be happy, in the end. I went back to my father after talking to you and asked him to call off the wedding, you know.”

“Really? What did he say?”

“Clearly he didn’t give me a hug and commend me for my honesty.” Malfoy’s brow furrowed, as if he were caught up in an unpleasant memory. “He told me it was impossible. Told me we already have the dowry—as if we couldn’t pay it back—and this Board of Governors post, all the media attention, not to mention the good graces that the Greengrasses bring us. He said it would be a catastrophe if I walked out, and _forbade_ me to do so. Forbade me! But I don’t think that codswallop matters to Dad as much as the propriety of the whole thing. He knows I’d never get married if he didn’t arrange it, and it drives him mad. You know what I mean.” Harry thought he did. He watched Malfoy manipulate the quill, as if he were planning some imaginary letter. A nervous tick, perhaps. “At any rate, I’ve never stood up to my father like that. It was exhilarating. I suppose I have you to thank for it.”

Harry found himself leaning on his own fist, rapt with Malfoy’s openness, not to mention rather warm over the idea of Malfoy crediting him for something other than his clumsiness or his idiocy.

“I came back, confident I would stay true to myself,” Malfoy went on. “But as time went by, the more Dad tried to contact me, I began to question who _myself_ really was. I realized...I don’t just exist by myself. I _can’t_. I only exist as an extension of a family to whom I owe a great allegiance. And that’s the answer to _who I am_. So, decent advice, Potter, for someone like you, but as far as Malfoys go—impossible.”

Harry couldn’t work out what was happening in front of him. Malfoy, from his words, appeared dutiful and stoic. But curled up in that chair, his eyes large and round, that feather dancing on his lips, he looked like a lost boy, not to be taken seriously.

Malfoy looked out from under his fringe. “You’re not going to try and talk me out of it?”

Harry weighed his words carefully. “I’ve already said my piece. Besides, I don’t think you’ve really made a decision. If you had, you wouldn’t be avoiding Lucius like this.”

Malfoy lurched out of the chair. He began to browse his shelves, touching a row of old books, leaving a trail in the dust, and then what appeared to be a tiny, life-like doll with leathery brown skin. He picked it up.

“So, what’s in this for the Greengrasses?” asked Harry.

“Power,” he said, as if everyone knew that. “The Malfoys may be unpopular right now, but we’ve been unpopular plenty of times in history. We always bounce back. I imagine Greengrass considers it a long-term investment.” He noticed Harry eyeing the doll, and said, “An anti-voodoo doll. They shrink the offending person instead of making a replica, and then you can just torture him directly. Relax, it’s not like it’s alive.”

Malfoy tickled the tiny man with his quill. He looked strangely at ease amongst his toys, if they could be called that, so Harry nodded to the boar’s head mounted above the desk.

“And that?”

“Just a normal boar’s head. I hunted him in India. Spirited chap, that pig.”

“I won’t comment on how your collectibles seem to revolve around death.”

“So very noble of you. The boar, I never touched myself—I went along for the chase and had my guide, Aakash, do the dirty work. As for the doll, found it at a market in New Orleans. You can hardly call me a mass murderer.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow at the collection of shrunken heads that hung in the corner.

“All right,” Malfoy said, smirking, “I killed every one of those bastards. They overcharged me for my botanical tour in the Amazon.”

They laughed for a moment, and Harry found himself unashamedly staring at Malfoy’s mouth.

Malfoy bit his lip, and turned away. “Mum tells me I should just keep a journal of my travels, but I do so love _things_.”

“Have you been traveling your whole life?”

“No, I only just started after the War. Six years may sound like a long time to travel, but then you realize just how much there is to _see_.” He bounced on his heels on the “see,” and Harry thought as enchanted as Malfoy looked he was liable to rocket off to some exotic land at that very moment. “You see, after the war, the European wizarding world was pretty skeptical of my family, so I opted out of my original plans, spending time in France and Italy with my cousins. Even on the continent people weren’t keen on us. I found myself in India. I think I enjoyed the weather more than the culture—though, they have good food when it stays in you.” He wrinkled his nose in yet another fashion Harry didn’t associate with Malfoy. It was wonderfully, oddly cute. “Then I went to other hot places: the south pacific, the Amazon jungles. Before I knew it, I had forgotten about the War and was enjoying my life. Really, _enjoying it_ for the first time since...I don’t know when.” He stared out the window at the purple, gathering clouds. “I do miss all that sunshine.”

At the mention of sunshine, Harry remembered the black flower on the desk. Its dome was giving off a much fainter light than what he’d seen in the dead of night.

“What’s the story behind that flower?” Harry asked.

“That?” Malfoy bit his lip again, and Harry was transfixed. “That’s personal.”

Harry let out a slow breath. “You can be personal with me. If you want.”

Perhaps he was overstepping his bounds. Malfoy didn’t respond for a long while, just flicking his eyes up and down Harry’s face. When he did, he sidled over so intently that Harry gripped the arms of his chair, convinced Malfoy would reach out and touch him. He did not. He sat on the edge of the desk, inches away, and touched the dome.

“Since you know so many of my secrets, now,” Malfoy said, gripping the handle. “It’s called _Tiare Aitu_ , the Phantom Flower. It was a gift from someone I met in French Polynesia.”

He lifted the dome, and Harry caught that ocean-scent again, the one from the drying charm Malfoy had cast, the one that clung to Malfoy’s skin.

“When I visited the rainforests in South America, I picked up a fascination for tropical plants. There were things there Professor Snape would have given a finger to have in his stores—just lying around for anyone to take. I paid some witch doctors to show me, and brought home some of this lot.”

Malfoy sprung up and went to the wooden case with the thermometers on the top, and revealed the contents: about a hundred vials with plant, root, and flower samples in vivid colors. They were each protected by separate glass panels, temperature regulated, and labeled in Malfoy’s precise hand.

“I became a purposeful collector after that, traveling to new regions every few weeks. When I settled in Tahiti, I heard rumors of a magical flower that could be used to make a healing draught so powerful it could raise the dead. Of course, I didn’t believe _that_ , but I still _had_ to get my hands on it.

“There were twin mountains on a nearby island, unbeknownst to Muggles. You could only get the flower there, in a dark, haunted forest in the valley between the mountains. To top it off, the flower only bloomed when a beam of sunlight came into this forest and cast itself over the plant—a rarity. Poetic stuff, if you ask me. But no guide would take me on my quest, saying the forest captured and ate people, or some rot.” Malfoy rolled his eyes at his, returning to the desk, near Harry. “Then I met Temana. He was a dancer in one of those silly Muggle island shows, except when Temana spat fire he could animate it into birds and lizards, all sorts of impressive things. He was wildly strapping, so that helped the act,” Malfoy added, a touch embarrassed. “Yet he didn’t make enough money for his purposes, so he offered to give me a hand. He’d grown up on the shore of the haunted island.

“Anyway, the forest was, indeed, horrible and haunted, but I hardly noticed. In the time we spent together, I found Temana wasn’t just talented, he was brilliant. He identified other ingredients for me—insects, roots, and the like. It felt like my first friendship of equals.

“After camping there several times, and almost succombing to quicksand, and encountering the ghost of a vengeful old witch, who wouldn’t let us near the Phantom Flower, we realized the whole thing was folly. I paid him, and told him goodbye.”

Malfoy waved a hand, and commenced in looking at his nails, as if it were the end of the story.

“So, the flower?” Harry prodded.

“Hmm, well.” He shrugged. “I stayed in Tahiti for a long time, feeling like I had unfinished business. Then I bumped into Temana one day at a wizarding flea market. He looked ecstatic. I thought it was because he was happy to see me, but then he told me his wife had just been hired on a bigger island to manage a hotel. That was significant money to them.”

Malfoy closed his eyes for a moment, and sighed. “I never saw him again. But a few days later, this thing showed up at my bungalow with a note. Temana told me he went out one last time to find it. He didn’t feel right leaving me empty handed. Clever bastard enchanted this case, too. It mimics the forest’s environment, complete with the beam of sunlight, so the flower is always open.” He cast a bittersweet look at the flower, eyes shining in the sunlight. “I’d never seen such a thing.”

“Neither have I,” Harry said, but not really to the flower.

“He could have sold this for a year’s salary, but he gave it to me. I’ve never known such kindness.”

Malfoy touched a petal, seeming to relish the warmth of the tropical air, and then replaced the dome. He started packing again, as if Harry were not in the room.

“So,” Harry said slowly, shifting his seat, “that wasn’t all that personal.”

Malfoy simply threw the anti-voodoo doll into a box.

“Or did you love him?” Harry wondered.

Malfoy spun around, mouth pursed, like he was holding back a curse. When he saw that Harry wasn’t jesting, he deflated. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “He was very kind to me. You love your parents, your grandparents. How do you know when you love someone new?”

“I imagine if you have to think hard about it, the answer is no.”

“He was very kind to me,” Malfoy repeated. “That’s all that matters. You realize as you grow up that people are generally well-intentioned. Do you know what I mean? You just have to give them the opportunity.”

Harry spread his arms out, as if to indicate that he was another example of this.

“Shut up, Potter,” Malfoy said, with a grin. “Get your evaluation file, it’s in that cupboard.”

\---

Harry sat at Malfoy’s desk, jotting out a not-quite-perfect evaluation. As he was placing the finishing touches, he felt a swell of magic from the bed chamber. He bolted up, reaching for his wand.

“Calm yourself, it’s just the floo,” Malfoy said, his head inside a trunk. He was wrapping and packing crystals of some kind.

Lucius Malfoy’s voice echoed from the chamber. It sounded like he was trapped in a metal box. “Son, remove the screen this instant! I will not call on you again. This is your last chance.”

Malfoy put his finger to his lips, and Harry stared until there was another swirl of magic, and it seemed Lucius was gone.

“What’s to stop him from coming through the floo and finding you?” Harry asked.

“Oh, I never set that access up, no way. He’d be having breakfast with me every morning.”

“Are you that close?”

“My father is more doting than he lets on. Let’s have tea. I’m tired of packing.”

Harry didn’t realize he was hungry until he found himself in front of a tea tray piled with sandwiches and cakes; in addition to tea, there was a carafe of coffee that Malfoy positively dove for.

“My elf Mippy sends this every day,” he said, crossed-legged on the leather sofa near the window. “She’s the best cook we have.”

“Odd that your elves cook for you while you’re away.”

“Hm, you’re right. I should just bring her with me. But she’s so burdensome, always sweeping up under my feet.”

“Well, give Mippy my regards,” he said, biting into a delightfully buttery ham sandwich.

Malfoy held the coffee mug close to his chest, gazing out the window at the low sun. He looked very tired. Harry slung his arm over the back of the sofa, experimental, his hand perilously close to Malfoy’s neck. He could not bring himself to touch it.

“You shouldn’t fret,” Harry said in a low voice. “The world will turn either way. Any wrong can be righted, if you change your mind.”

“Easy for you to say. Old families don’t divorce like _some_ people,” he said meaningfully.

“Oy, I see your nice streak is fading!”

“That’s just the truth,” Malfoy groused. Then he rounded on Harry with a burst of enthusiasm. “Here’s how serious we are about family and bloodlines. There’s a charm passed down in my family from father to son. I don’t know how it works, but you receive the charm the night of your wedding, and it ensures each child will be a male _and_ that he will retain the majority of the father’s characteristics. Not only are you guaranteed a proper heir, but that heir will be your blood _unquestionably_. If you look at my family history for the past thousand years, there is only one heir per father, each male, and every one of them looks like my brother—one even married a sub-Saharan woman, and their son came out pasty white!”

Harry chuckled as Malfoy knocked back his coffee.

“That’s not all it’s for,” Malfoy went on. “If my wife ever cheated on me—with, say, Ron Weasley—the son would be guaranteed to have red hair and freckles, as per the charm specifications. That way my wife is outed instantly as an adulterer. It only happened once, in the tenth century, and they burned her.”

“That is scary and clever,” Harry admitted.

“Look at me, I’m the last in a line of literally _crafted_ sons. It’s creepy, is what it is. And it’s a lot of damned pressure. _Why couldn’t my parents have had two sons, I ask you_?”

Harry plucked the mug out of his stark white hands, and said, “Don’t fret just yet. Hey, what’s that?”

There was one more thing in the office Harry hadn’t examined. It looked like box on legs. It was about three feet long, as high as his navel, and the top was sealed with two wooden panels.

“That?” Malfoy said with a mischievous smile. “Oh, you’ll like that.”

They stooped over the box, and Malfoy tapped his wand on the surface. The panels opened. A sound emerged, slowly rising in volume, until it resembled hundreds of screaming, cheering people. Harry looked closer: there were, in fact, hundreds of tiny wooden people in what looked to be a stadium surrounding the edges of the box. There was a green surface at the bottom. No, a pitch.

“Table top Quidditch,” Harry exclaimed, glasses nearly falling off his face.

Malfoy was bouncing with anticipation. “I’ve had it since the World Cup when we were in fourth year. Dad paid the gift shop a fortune for it. It was the only one manufactured. Pull out your wand, then, I’ve never had another Quidditch captain to play with. _Players, to your positions_.”

There were two small holes at either end of the structure. When Malfoy spoke, tiny players flew out of them, riding brooms as small as matchsticks, whizzing around the pitch before coming to rest at the center, where the referee stood with four balls.

“All right,” Malfoy said, very serious. “It’s simple enough. You’ve got to use your wand to give commands to each player. If you ignore a player, he defaults to a random but logical course of action. All real-life rules apply, and the referee automatically fouls you and keeps score. Got it?”

“Be afraid, Malfoy.”

Malfoy’s eyes glittered with delight. He nodded to the referee. Nothing happened. All the players stood, blinking.

“Bollocks, I forgot,” he said, tossing his wand onto the pitch. (The players shouted obscenities.) “They don’t listen to you unless you’re wearing their team colors. Come on, it came with some robes—”

Malfoy grabbed Harry by the hand, and yanked him towards the bed chamber. Harry hardly had time to revel in his touch, because the instant Malfoy opened the door, that old burst of floo magic flooded the room.

“Draco!” Lucius shouted. “Move this screen this instant, or I swear on my father’s grave—”

Malfoy sprang away from the door, shutting it in surprise, and tripping backwards into Harry from the momentum.

Harry tried to keep them steady, but ended up stumbling with Malfoy until the desk broke their fall. With his chest to Malfoy’s back, Harry could feel a rapid heart beat. He held Malfoy, still clutching his hand, making sure he didn’t fall. All right, if Harry were honest, he didn’t _want_ to let go.

“Sorry,” Malfoy said shakily, pulling away.

If Harry were even more honest, he felt he would explode if he had to go another moment without kissing Draco Malfoy. He spun Malfoy around, grabbed him by the face, and did just that.

He waited for Malfoy’s startled moan to die, hoping he’d chosen right, hoping the other man would melt into his arms. He did; he exhaled, and opened his mouth, and Harry was taken by the heady taste of coffee he’d so enjoyed smelling on Malfoy’s skin. He pushed Malfoy into the plush desk chair, and knelt between his legs, holding him around the middle. It was nice to feel how hard he was breathing. It was nice when Malfoy’s fingers threaded into his hair.

Abruptly, Malfoy pulled back. “What is this?” he asked, panting, blinking at Harry with dilated eyes.

“I don’t know. But I want it.”

Harry couldn’t recall the last time he’d just kissed someone for a length of time. Probably in his teen years. But as he knelt there with one of Malfoy’s legs hooked around his waist, the other leg in his desperate grasp, stroking it from trembling thigh to bare, soft foot, Harry realized he had forgotten the meaning of passion and had suddenly found it again.

And he wanted _more_.

He pulled Malfoy close and hoisted him out of the chair.

“Shit,” Malfoy’s said, grabbing onto Harry’s biceps. “We’re going to—”

“You’re fine.”

“You’ve certainly filled out since the start of term—mmph!”

Harry’s energy felt endless. He pinned Malfoy against the wall. Malfoy’s legs locked around him, and he threw his head back, his mouth parting, pink and slick, at the feeling of Harry’s erection pulsing against his arse.

“I don’t think I could fuck you like this,” Harry said, and kissing his throat. “But perhaps with some magical assistance....”

“Let me go for a moment,” Malfoy said coarsely.

He slid down and slumped against the desk, his hair in disarray, his breathing erratic. He put an arm to his forehead, as if to feel for a fever. Harry was sure he had one, himself, but knew it was the good kind.

He went for the zipper on Malfoy’s jeans. He took his time, feeling the warmth of the other man’s groin, the way his thighs pressed together nervously.

Malfoy grabbed his hand. “I don’t think you’ve quite grasped....” He lowered his gaze, looking sidelong at the black flower. “I haven’t been with anyone.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Harry said, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize you’d never slept with a man.”

“No. _Anyone_.”

Harry took a step back.

“It’s not like I never had offers,” Malfoy said quickly. “I would have liked it to be someone I was attracted to. I mean, like you. You’re, you know...Merlin, this is horrifying.”

“Draco, I had no idea. We don’t have to do this right now.”

“No! You idiot—” Malfoy grabbed him by the hair, and pressed their heads together. “Just bear it in mind.”

\---

Harry was laying in the most comfortable bed ever. No really, ever. Had Draco had this thing custom-sewn from the wings of angels and stuffed with passing clouds? If he fell asleep here, he’d never wake up.

Not that he was motivated to leave with Draco dozing in his arms, beautifully nude. Growing up, Harry had observed Draco to have a pointy face. It was still very angular. When he slept, though, it relaxed just enough to let his thin mouth round out and his jawline grow less pronounced. The line that was appearing on his forehead became smooth.

Harry ran his hand along Draco’s back, remembering how Draco’s body had trembled as Harry took his entire prick into his mouth, down to the balls, pulling back with powerful suction. Draco came the moment Harry touched a finger to that soft pinkness beneath.

“Let me do you, too,” Draco had said, reaching for Harry’s belt.

“No matter, take a rest.”

He’d put his head on Harry’s chest, eyes falling shut. “S’not fair, is it?”

“It’s fair to me.”

Harry had spent the last twenty minutes with his nose in Draco’s hair, eyeballing the fireplace. It would be a nightmare if their two-way silencing charm failed.

Draco sat up abruptly. “Is it morning?”

“No, you only just went to sleep.”

He sank onto his elbow, looking drowsily at Harry. “Oh. Well, shall I have Mippy send dinner?”

“No, I’m not finished with this course.”

There was a lull as they kissed. Draco stopped, his hand on Harry’s cheek. “You said you wanted to fuck me. Do you prefer to be on top?”

Harry shrugged, folding his hands behind his head. “I reckon I do. I’ve never done it any other way.”

“Good...because I think I would like that very much, having you inside me.” He said this into Harry’s ear, making Harry fight to keep his breathing in check. “If I can manage, that is.”

“Oh, I think you can.”

Draco sat back onto his knees, practically nuzzling Harry’s trousers. “May I suck it now?”

“ _Shit, Malfoy_. You speak to me almost entirely in commands, but once we’re in bed you ask me a question like that?”

Draco gave a devilish smile, running his teeth along the tab where Harry’s trousers zipped up. He mouthed the bulge of Harry’s erection, before drawing the zipper down and letting the warm flesh spring out and lay against his cheek. “May I?”

“Yes, yes, please.”

For all his wiles, Draco was endearingly restrained about the whole matter. He took Harry in slowly, delicately, like some rare morsel of food one was meant to savor rather than eat. When Harry sighed in pleasure, Draco came up for breath, making eye contact, looking positively enamored with his progress, and ducked back down to savor Harry again, making quiet suckling noises.

Harry was overwhelmed by the sight of Draco bobbing there: his small mouth, stretched to its limits; the lissome bend of his back; the pert, white hind-end that Harry had so admired. He reached out, stroking gently between Draco’s cheeks.

“Is this okay?” he asked. “Can I touch you here?”

Draco hummed.

Harry licked a finger. “Have you ever touched yourself down here?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

This talk made Harry’s groin heavy, his mind a blur.

“Slow down,” he warned. “I’m going to come.”

Draco spread his legs and flopped forward onto Harry’s thigh. Harry realized he was knuckle-deep in Draco’s arse. When Draco gasped, Harry felt the air on his balls. “It feels like a lot already,” he said, and Harry could tell this was true, the way Draco’s arse contracted and drew him in.

“Do you want more?” Harry asked longingly.

Draco responded by summoning some aloe oil from his potions stores, and in moments they were spooning in the downy comfort of the bed. Harry rubbed the head of his cock between Draco’s buttocks, enjoying the soft give of those muscles and the way Draco would press back, over eager.

“Relax,” Harry whispered.

“I am.”

“Then take me in when you’re ready.”

Draco turned his head and led Harry down for a kiss. In the same motion, his arse gave completely, and Harry felt himself enveloped in indescribable warmth.

“You all right?” he asked. “You’re shaking.”

Draco hummed again.

Harry buried his face into that soft head of hair. He was trying to contain his excitement. There was something here he’d never felt with a lover: a tenderness he’d never felt with Peter, a sweet joy he’d never felt with Ginny. As he moved with Draco, he thought of the night in the Defense room, when they swayed together, moving in sync like this. If he had known then how close he was to such bliss, he didn’t think they would have made it out of that room.

Harry felt sorry for a moment, as his passions made him forget about gentleness; that is, until Draco threw his arm back, grabbing Harry’s arse, pulling him in so hard that Harry could do nothing else but lose himself in Draco’s brutal tightness.

“Slow down, slow down,” Harry pleaded.

“I want to feel you.”

“I’m going to come.”

“Then come for me,” Draco demanded. “Come inside me.”

Harry went still. He may have been shouting. He lay there, balls tightening, pulsing into Draco for a long, blissful moment. He felt like he was floating.

When he landed, Draco’s head was stuck to his chest with sweat. He was staring peacefully into space.

Harry lifted Draco’s chin. “I’d like to give you some new advice,” he said pointedly. “You _must not_ go to that wedding.”

Draco smiled that slow, wide smile from yesterday. This time Harry did what he wanted, and kissed it.

\---

_Tap, tap, tap._

“Shut up, whoever you are,” Draco said.

 _Tap, tap, tap_.

“What in the bloody—?” Draco launched over Harry, grabbed the wand off the nightstand, and waved it at the window.

A tiny, funny owl flew in. Ron’s owl.

Draco looked at the wand, and left it on Harry’s chest. “S’yours,” he said, and went back to sleep.

Harry stretched, squinting in the sunlight. “You woke me, Pig. What’s so important?”

Harry nearly tossed the letter on the nightstand, but then Hermione’s pregnant belly flashed into his mind.

Was the baby early?

He grabbed his glasses, and ripped the letter open.

_Harry,_

_I tried getting ahold of you all yesterday. Floo call me!_

— _Hermione_

Harry didn’t want to leave Draco’s bed, but Ron would be hurt if the child had been born and Harry wasn’t there to help welcome him. _Her_ , Hermione said in his head.

“Hey, I’ve got to go,” he said, rolling Draco off him.

“No, stay.”

“Hermione needs me. Sounds important. Unless you think I can use your floo?”

“No.” Draco flopped onto his stomach, and muttered something about frizzy hair.

“All right, I’ll be back later.”

Harry covered Draco with the duvet, found his clothes, and jogged back to his tower. Hermione was up reading when he floo-called her, with Ron snoring from somewhere in the house.

“Harry, you look dishevelled,” she said, holding her belly as she shuffled over. “You haven’t been...?”

“What? Oh, drinking? No. Come to think of it...I didn’t think about drinking once yesterday.” He silently thanked Draco.

“That’s brilliant.” She fidgeted with her hair.

“Hermione, are you all right? I thought it was the baby or something.”

“No, no, still nice and pregnant. I’ve got some bad news, though. It’s about Peter.”

“Huh? What about him?”

“I’m sorry to say that I found him a bit strange when we met. The way he looked at you, a little too closely—he reminded me of Colin Creevey without the camera.” Harry mused that Peter did, in fact, have a camera, but he let Hermione finish her thought, as agitated as she looked. “I didn’t want to prejudge the man, though. I was sure you liked him very much. So, I did some research.”

Harry shook his head fondly. “Can any part of my life be left to its own devices, Hermione?”

“Apparently not. And I’m not the only one investigating. But at least mine is with your best interests at heart.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Harry...Peter’s a spy. He works alongside Gawain Robards from the hearing—”

“My former Head Auror? Ron’s boss? Are you joking?”

“I wish I were. Robards has been trying to dig up dirt on you for a while. I got Ron to snoop, and he found a stack of photos of you from the past couple years in Robards’ office. He’s convinced you’re a public menace and is waiting for you to slip up. Lucky for you, nothing in Robards’ office was incriminating.”

“What does that have to do with Peter?”

“Harry, do you even know where he works?”

“Of course, he works at the Ministry,” he said plainly.

“He works for the Wizengamot Administration as the Head of the _Investigations Bureau_ ,” Hermione said, as though this were incriminating by itself. “All the magical signatures on the wizarding photos matched the signatures on photos from some of Peter’s other investigations. Now, I don’t know why Peter would have stood up for you at the hearing, if he was in cahoots with Robards—perhaps to throw you off, so he could get cozy with you. Harry, you’ve got to stop seeing him. God forbid they have something to frame you with already.”

Harry’s pulse was picking up. “I’ll do more than stop seeing him.”

“Don’t be rash, now. This is exactly what they want. To catch you compromising your probation. And you’re so close to being finished.”

“I’m not going to pulverize the man. But it’s not illegal to scare him a little.”

Hermione touched her heart in sympathy. “I don’t know how close you two were, but I’m sorry I had to—”

“Don’t worry about it. I had reason to break if off soon, anyway.”

“Well, you move quickly. Is there someone else?”

“Maybe. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”

“Best of luck, then, Harry. We’ll see you over the holiday. Oh, maybe sooner! Are you going to Malfoy’s wedding today?”

Harry was taken aback. And then he started to laugh.

“I think not.”

 

**10.**

 

Harry marched up the path to Peter’s cottage, glaring through the falling snow, and banged on the door with his broom handle. There was a tremble of magic before the door whipped open.

Peter looked as if he had been shocked out of a deep sleep. “Harry, what’s going on? It’s seven in the morning. And you’re all wet.”

Harry pushed past him, looking around the drawing room and kitchen. “Did you just Apparate from somewhere?” he asked.

“N-no, of course not.” Peter indicated his robe and slippers. “You just woke me up.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked, charging into the bedroom. He stopped short—the bed was crisply made, like no one had been sleeping there. Peter turned up, twisting his robe tie in his hands.

“I fell asleep on the sofa,” he said. “Are you feeling okay?”

Harry ignored him, and went back to the drawing room, where the cardboard box and long-lens camera still sat. He kicked himself, thinking, _who needs a long-lens camera for garden photography?_

He turned on Peter. “So, you’re saying this is your house? You’re not just stationed here for some reason?”

Peter’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“These are your family photographs, you said?” Harry kicked over the box, and sent the camera and contents tumbling.

“Now, hold on, let me explain—”

But it was obvious now. Harry had revealed at least a hundred photographs sitting on top of a stack of files. He grabbed a fistful. Hermione was right: They were all of him. There was one of him standing on the roof of the cafe, just before the fire. His hair was flapping in the wind as he prepared to cast his inferno spell; his hand twitched in the photo, and the bakery went up in flames. There was another from the night of the Quidditch store robbery, in which Harry drunkenly planted a pair of specialty gloves and a Golden Snitch into a young man’s robes. There was one of him exiting the Hogwarts Express on the 1st of September. There were dozens more, taken in Hogsmeade (with students), in Diagon Alley (fighting with Ginny), in Muggle London (drunk), even outside Ron and Hermione’s house; some were compromising, but most were no different than any normal photograph.

“I can explain,” Peter said tragically. He reached out to touch Harry, but Harry jerked back.

“There’s nothing to explain. I know everything.”

“ _No, you don’t_!”

That was the first time Peter had spoken to him with something like to fortitude.

“Try me,” Harry growled, clenching his fists. “But I doubt it will matter.”

“This _is_ my mother’s cottage, but I haven’t lived here in sometime. I live in London, close to my job—”

“And what kind of job would that be?”

Harry already knew, but he wanted to hear it from the man’s mouth.

“I’m the Senior Investigator for the Wizengamot Administration. I usually just do paperwork...interviews with suspects and witnesses for the Wizangamot’s purposes...things like that. I wasn’t lying when I told you my uncle got me the job. My Uncle Gawain, he knew that I...admired you. He wanted to use that to his advantage.”

Harry was shocked. “Auror Robards is your uncle?”

Peter nodded. “After your hearing, he asked me to take on a special task for him, tracking you. He thought my Harry Potter expertise could help the Ministry. I didn’t believe you were a threat to anyone,” he added hastily. “But I thought if I took the job I could prove you were as good as ever.”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to make sense of it all.

“When I saw you doing those horrible things,” Peter went on, “it broke my heart that you were so troubled. I dearly wanted to comfort you.”

“Is that why you started talking to me in Hogsmeade?”

“I saw how lonely you looked. I felt that way, too.”

Harry shied from Peter’s touch again, ignoring the hurt in his eyes. “It doesn’t matter why you did it. It was wrong. You were seeing me under false pretenses.”

“But I never intended to turn you in. I was trying to help you.”

“Thank you,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “But did it ever occur to you that if you admired me, you could have introduced yourself in some other way?”

“I know it looks bad, but—”

“It _is_ bad, Peter. It’s manipulative!”

“ _It’s manipulative to set a building on fire, so you can be the hero when you save the people inside_!” Peter’s breath hitched. He put his hand up regretfully. “Look...it’s just lucky my uncle hired _me_ for the job. If he had hired someone else, you’d be in prison right now.”

That was no comfort. None of this was a comfort. Harry was about to just walk away when he noticed something.

“Hold on.” He picked up the picture of him standing on the cafe roof. “You said Robards asked you to track me _after_ my Wizengamot hearing. But this picture occurred weeks before that. And this one—in the Quidditch shop—this one’s from a year ago.”

When Peter couldn’t look him in the eye, Harry’s stomach flipped over.

“Robards didn’t need to talk you into spying,” he said, letting the photos flutter to the ground. “You were doing it already. That’s why it was so easy for you to accept the job.”

Peter was on the verge of tears. “We can get past this,” he whispered. He ran his hands up Harry’s chest, the way Harry once would have enjoyed.

“You were stalking me.”

“I’ll destroy all the photos. I’ll abandon the case. We’ll be a normal couple. Give me another chance.”

“Oddly enough, it’s not the stalking that irks me the most,” Harry said, taking Peter gently but firmly by the wrists. “Maybe I could have forgiven you if you had been watching me out of some strange adoration, and then just happened to fall for me. But while you were watching me, you _had_ to have known I had a drinking problem. Yet you kept trying to feed me booze whenever we met. You kept offering me wine. Did you think if you kept me hooked you’d have some sort of hold on me?”

“I know it was wrong, Harry,” he implored. “But you were so much easier to talk to in that state. So much more affectionate. And it got you to see that you should divorce your wife. Aren’t you happier now?”

Harry was happier. But that was beside the point. He shoved Peter away, shaking his head bitterly.

Peter grasped at him. “Harry, I’m sorry. Please, don’t do this. I love you so much!”

“If you loved me, you’d want me healthy. I don’t think I need to say this, but I won’t be seeing you anymore.” Harry stepped over the photos to grab his broomstick.

“I can’t let you leave. Please, we’re meant to be together!”

That was too strange for him not to acknowledge. “Pardon me?”

“Two orphans—one in need of a hero, and one who needs to _be_ a hero. We fit together.”

 _Hero complex_ , Robards had said in the Wizengamot chamber. Did Robards get the idea from Peter? Or did they inform one another?

“No,” Harry said, resolute. “I’m no one’s hero. And I don’t need to be.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Peter, but you’re off your trolley, and I never want to see you again. And if I catch you tracking me, I will curse you in a way you’ve never imagined.”

Peter looked like a kicked dog, caught between rage and loyalty. “You have to stay,” he said tightly. “I have these files and photographs. Your freedom is in my hands.”

Harry snorted. He charged out the front door, crunching in snow, practically melting it in his anger.

“I could turn you in!” Peter said, trotting up on his heels. “I could send all this evidence to my uncle and have you in Azkaban by nightfall!”

Harry stopped. He turned to find Peter shivering in his bathrobe, while trying very hard to look authoritative.

Harry backed him towards the cottage. “Here’s the thing. No, you won’t.”

“Oh, won’t I?” he asked, wavering.

“No,” Harry said deeply, knowing this tone gave Peter chills. “After all, I have more than one eyewitness who could report that you’ve been fraternizing with a subject in your Ministry investigations. But more important than that, you won’t turn me in _because you can’t_.” Peter moaned as Harry took him by the waist and whispered close to his mouth. “You said it yourself. You love me too much.”

As their lips touched for the last time, Harry slipped his hand behind Peter’s back, pointed towards the house, and sent the box of photographs up in flames.

Peter whipped around, and hollered. The fire was spreading. He pulled out his wand and sprinted inside.

By the time Peter’s neighbors emerged to see what the commotion was about, Harry was gone.

\---

Harry raced up the stairs to Draco’s chambers. If yesterday were an indication of his normal sleeping patterns, Draco would be in bed until noon.

There were about a dozen delicious ways he could awaken Draco, but he really just wanted to climb into those heavenly pillows and act like he’d never left. The business with Peter had left him utterly drained.

Harry stopped in his tracks. There was note on Draco’s door.

_H—_

_My father sent Mippy to move the grate screen. He looked terribly distraught when he appeared in the floo. He was already wearing his wedding attire. I couldn’t find it in me to say no._

_I’m sorry and thank you._

— _D  
_

“No,” Harry said.

He had to read it twice.

It wasn’t until Harry ran into the office that he believed it. There was nothing left but an empty desk, some shelves, and the table top Quidditch set. He looked at the note a third time, flipped it over, and found a postscript: _You take the Quidditch set. I doubt my wife will want to play._

It had been a long time since Harry felt such violent rage.

The last time was this summer in the holding cell at the Ministry, when two Aurors were flicking water at him and laughing as he tried to fall asleep. Harry had thrown both of them into the ceiling and had them spinning like fans by the time Ron showed up to take him to Saint Mungo’s for his concussion.

Before that had been the last day he lived with Ginny. He’d come home with roses, an attempt to dissuade her anger that he’d been out all night.

“Are these recycled from one your whores, then?” she had asked, tossing them into the sink.

Harry didn’t remember much. There was an eruption of magic, and the cutlery flew, the saucers spun, the wallpaper peeled, and the toaster ended up in the loo. _I was just trying to make it up to you_ , he kept saying. He hadn’t harmed Ginny, but what would have happened the next time? It had clearly been time for him to go.

Here, there was no one to attack, no dishes to break. If he screamed or cursed, no one would hear.

Harry searched the bed chamber, finding nothing but the team robes for the Quidditch set slung over an empty bed frame.

He sank onto the floor, and stared into the empty, cold grate.

He wanted a drink.

\---

“ _There’s a bit of a theme to your troubles,” the doctor said, examining his notes._

_It was their last meeting. Harry was nervous to say goodbye, to face the challenge of never drinking again. He doubted it would stick._

“ _Yeah,” Harry said. “I’m an alcoholic and a selfish asshole.”_

“ _No. But you have trouble understanding one concept—that you are not the answer to everything.”_

“ _I’m not the answer? Phew, I was sweating over that.”_

“ _I’m serious, Harry. You’re not responsible for your wife’s happiness.”_

_Harry looked at Dr. Bullstaff strangely. The sober, sweater-vested, ever-professional man had never offered such an opinion._

“ _You’re not a bad friend for not becoming an Auror,” he went on, putting aside his quill. “You don’t have to make the wizarding world believe you’ll always be there to save them. And if there ever was a time for that—if you were truly the only person able to vanquish You Know Who—then that time is over. You’re a free man. You have control over your life, and your life alone. You need to realize that before you can start being happy.”_

_Before he picked up his quill again, he added, “I say this as your friend, not your doctor.”_

_Harry nodded slowly. “What will help get rid of this feeling?”_

_As usual, the doctor eyed the rotating galaxy globe._

“ _Time,” he said._

\---

Harry took some of everything for lunch. If he was eating, he couldn’t be drinking, he reasoned. What started as a salad with extra dressing became a fat ham and cheese sandwich with crisps. After that, he scooped a portion of chips and gravy onto his plate. He was reaching for the pumpkin juice, when Hagrid spoke to him.

“I saw yeh skipped breakfast, Harry. Glad to see you makin’ up for it.”

Harry gave a bloated smile. As he chewed, he stared at the blue-gray sky in the Great Hall ceiling. He thought of time. He thought of the doctor. Mainly, he thought of Draco.

It wasn’t his responsibility to save Draco.

Happy or not, Draco had made his choice.

He took a second scoop of gravy, and plopped it onto his chips. The sheer weight of it seemed to reaffirm his decision.

“Good afternoon, Professor Potter.” McGonagall sat airily, but didn’t serve herself. “I saw you missed your classes yesterday.”

“What?” he said, thinking back. “No, I cancelled them, I let the students know.”

“You forgot the evening students. Those fifth years are so paranoid about their O.W.L.s that they came and got me. Don’t worry, I filled in for you.”

“You, what? Oh, Professor, I can’t believe I made you—”

She waved him off. “It was my pleasure. I happen to miss being in the classroom.” She politely looked away as he dropped gravy chips into his lap. “Besides, I know you were busy with Mr. Malfoy yesterday. I’m sure you just lost track of time.”

Harry’s food stopped in his throat. “Sorry?”

“You had your final evaluation yesterday, did you not?”

“Ah. Yes, that. I’m sure I did well.”

“I should think so. With all the time he spent helping you with your practical classes, he was grading himself as much as you. I’d like to congratulate you both on a job well done this term.”

“It’s nothing,” Harry said shortly. “You’ll have to tell Malfoy yourself, though. He left today.”

“Yes, I know. He’s getting married today,” McGonagall said, as if that were a perfectly reasonable thing for Draco to be doing.

Harry excused himself, suddenly put off by food. He wrapped his scarf tight and went outside, stopping at the top of the castle’s front steps. Here, he could see children building snowmen and flinging icy clumps at one another. Bigsby was in the distance, teaching his friends how to create warming shields.

From the corner of Harry’s eye, a tartan cloak appeared.

“You should go,” McGonagall said, looking out at the grounds.

He was annoyed she hadn’t picked up on his moodiness. “Go where?”

“To the wedding. You were invited, were you not?”

“I don’t think that’s the same as being welcome.”

“Oh, I think you’d be the most welcome guest of all, Mr. Potter.” Her normally stern face had softened into something knowing. “I’ve known you well since you were eleven years old. I’ve seen you triumph, I’ve seen you get married yourself, but I’ve never seen you as happy as you have been these past few weeks.”

“Erm,” Harry said awkwardly. “Do headmasters and headmistresses _literally_ have eyes everywhere?”

She leaned in. “You cannot imagine. No wonder Professor Dumbledore was slightly mad.”

Harry didn’t know _exactly_ what McGonagall had seen, but it wouldn’t have changed his answer either way. “Look, Professor...I’m struggling to be reserved about this. I can’t go around trying to save everybody all the time.”

“Of all the times to be reserved, you choose this one? Harry, I’ve lost love, and that pain does not fade easily. And it’s not Draco Malfoy you’d be saving, do you understand? It’s yourself. The wedding is in an hour. _Go_.”

Harry was agog. As hands-off as Professor McGonagall had been this term, it would seem she knew what she was doing. He had thrived in his classroom, in part because of her immovable trust in him. And now she was doing him a final favor in revealing a part of her past Harry doubted she mentioned for just anyone. He had half a mind to pick the old woman up and hug her. Instead, he shook her hand. Before he fled, he could swear he saw a twinkle in McGonagall’s eye not unlike Albus Dumbledore’s.

\---

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. She helped him out of the tiny fireplace. “We weren’t expecting you!”

“Yeah, er,” he said, looking around their drawing room, “decided to go at the last minute—you know, it gets boring at Hogwarts.”

Hermione dusted soot off the blue dress robes he’d liberated from his trunk. “My, don’t you look dapper. We’re catching a portkey at half-past, so you’re right on time. Ron, look, he made it!”

Ron was stalking into the room with a towel around his waist, pulling a comb through wet hair. “Brilliant, now there’ll be more than rich old farts to talk to.”

“Have you got your broom handy? Forgot mine,” Harry said.

Ron pointed to a nearby closet. “You won’t regret it, Harry. Do you know what kind of nosh these sorts of families serve at weddings? Dolphin-sized lobsters, and eight-hundred-year-old cheese, and things that look like jelly but are really fish or something—”

“I really couldn’t think about food right now,” Harry said, rummaging.

“—and little buttery crackers, and steak, and tartar, and—”

“Harry, what are you doing in there?” Hermione asked. “I told you, there’s a portkey arranged.”

“I know, but I’m in a hurry, got some business first.” He pulled out one of Ron’s winter cloaks, too. In his haste to find the long-forgotten invitation (and his invisibility cloak, for good measure) he’d forgotten to dress for the weather. “And, you know, you two are closer to Wiltshire than me, so I thought I’d take off from here....”

“What sort of business?” Ron asked.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“I’ve been getting that answer a lot lately,” Hermione said suspiciously.

“It’s nothing. Except probably the stupidest thing I’ll ever do in my life.”

Ron snorted. “I’ve seen you do some bloody stupid things, too. Please tell me it’s not illegal. I don’t want to work today.”

“It’s not illegal,” Harry said, wrenching open the back door to their garden. An icy breeze rushed in. “But if this goes wrong, I might throw myself in Azkaban.”

\---

Malfoy Manor presented itself more easily than expected.

Harry was sure the battlement of a home would have wards protecting it from broom-riders coming in too close, so he opted to land outside the tall iron gates. His wedding invitation glowed as he approached, letting him pass directly through the bars like a ghost. The snow became sparser as it fell towards the driveway, vanishing completely once it touched ground. Harry supposed purebloods didn’t like getting their feet wet. He walked to one side as a thestral-drawn carriage rolled up behind him; as he let it pass, an ancient wizard in a top hat looked out the window and down his nose at Harry.

The haughtiness didn’t stop at the door. Harry was met by a whiskery old house-elf, who reminded him eerily of Kreacher, except this elf stood up straight and wore a crisply ironed bed sheet.

He held out his bony hand. “May Hobbes take sir’s...” He coughed. “... _broom_?”

Some bejeweled young witches pointed at Harry and giggled to each other. It would seem riding in on a broomstick to a high-society wizarding wedding was akin to riding in on a skateboard to its Muggle counterpart.

“Erm....” Harry craned to get a glimpse of the giant room past Hobbes. If the dozens of chairs, green and gold trim, and fluttering fairies with white roses were any sign, the ceremony would be held in there. It was filling fast, but no sign of Draco. Why should there be? The wedding party didn’t show up until the ordeal began, Harry recalled from his own wedding.

He reckoned he had no more than fifteen minutes! In this monstrosity of a house, that was not enough time to throw on his invisibility cloak and break into each room.

The elf coughed again. “May Hobbes take sir’s _broom_?” he demanded.

Then Harry noticed that the bejeweled witches were picking tiny glasses of champagne off a silver platter. The platter was low to the floor, and two tiny, bony feet were sticking out.

“Er...Mippy?” he asked.

The platter jumped. It spun around frantically.

A stormy look overcame Hobbes, and he turned to the platter. “Mippy will not talk to this horrible, low class man!” He turned back to Harry. “Sir is an honored guest in the Malfoy home, and deserves more respect than a serving-elf can provide.”

Mippy seemed to bow under the platter, and then she jumped up, and scurried out of the entryway towards the ceremony room.

“Wait, Mippy, it’s okay!” Harry said, chasing her, ignoring Hobbes’ maniacal coughing. He picked up the platter to find a diminutive house elf with a green bow around her neck. “I’m a friend of Draco’s.”

“Oh!” she squeaked nervously. “Mippy loves Master Draco. Mippy must go make Master Draco his favorite foods now.”

“ _Wait, Mippy_ ,” he said before she vanished. “I need your help.”

She looked at Hobbes with terror. He was taking cloaks from other guests, while admonishing her from the corner of his bulbous eye.

“I mean, _Master Draco_ needs your help,” Harry tried.

“Master Draco! Mippy will do anything for Master Draco.”

“I thought so. I need you to tell me where he is, so I can give him a message. His life will be very unhappy if I cannot speak with him.”

“Mippy cannot bring sir any further into the manor! Master Lucius forbids it and will burn Mippy’s ears. Mippy will happily bring Master Draco this message, sir.”

“What if you just told me where his window was? That way, I could find Master Draco without entering the manor, and you wouldn’t be breaking the rules?”

Mippy nodded, her rabbit-like ears flopping. “Master Draco’s rooms are on the third floor, on the east side of the manor. A tree branch hangs over Master Draco’s balcony. Mippy knows this, because Master Draco always sat in this tree with his telescope when he was small.”

“Thank you,” he said. To Mippy’s dismay, Harry shook her hand. “This means a lot!”

He raced outside, sidestepping an outraged Hobbes and nearly bowling over Ron and Hermione as they came up the steps.

“Harry!” Hermione cried, but there was no time to explain.

He ascended on his broom, racing around the side of the manor, and something caught his eye in short order. There was a pale face in one of the windows. He squinted, and realized it was Astoria.

She put the bejeweled girls in the foyer to shame. Her hair lay in brown curls, in contrast to the shimmering white of her dress, which surrounded her in waves of fabric, damasked in lace and pearl. The dress was so abundant in pearls that a plump witch was still on her knees sewing them into the hemline. Astoria did not seem to notice. As grand as she was, she was slumping over the arm of her divan with her head on her fist, frowning out at the snow. It was as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. She did not blink until another girl danced into the room—Harry recognized her as his classmate from Hogwarts, Daphne Greengrass—and took her by the hand. The two put their heads together, marvelling at the dress, it seemed, and the diamonds on Astoria’s fingers, and the rosebuds adorning her hair.

The rosebuds reminded Harry of the Phantom Flower on Draco’s desk. This set him back on task.

He found the tree obscured under a canopy of snow. A long branch led to Draco’s balcony, like Mippy said. Harry threw on his invisibility cloak and hovered close to the glass doors.

Draco was standing in front of a full-body mirror, adjusting his clothes. He was dressed in cream-white, from the cravat at his throat, to his silken vest, to his heavy, fitted robes. His black boots were the only difference, and they made him stand erect and regal. Harry was infatuated all over again. He would have loved nothing more than to take Draco by his fine hair and kiss him deeply. Perhaps that would remind Draco what he was walking away from.

Except he couldn’t. Lucius was striding into the room, dressed in all black.

Hurriedly, Harry cast a listening charm.

“You sent for me?” Lucius asked.

“I can’t get the cravat right.”

“I might say you were stalling,” Lucius admonished. He took the tie and reworked it, just the same.

“I want to look the part if I’m going to bother.”

When Lucius finished, he stepped back and held out his hands, as if to present himself with a newly completed word of art. Then he pulled Draco close, saying, “You’ve made me proud today.” Harry found the tenderness jarring.

“Then I’ve done what I set out to do,” Draco said quietly.

“I think I can finally give you this.” Lucius produced a long necklace from his robes. At the end of the necklace, there was an emerald pendant, which glowed brightly even from afar.

Draco gulped audibly. “Dad, I really don’t know if I can—”

“You’ll need the Heredity Charm from now on. You’ve inherited the responsibility for our family line. I repeat, I am proud to give this to you today.”

Draco clutched the charm to his chest. His expression was some mixture of shock and heaviness.

“Let’s get on with it, then,” Lucius said, pulling away. “Your bride has been waiting long enough. I’ll tell the maestro to start the music.”

The door slammed behind him.

This was Harry’s chance. He made to hop onto the balcony, but suddenly Draco was turning towards him and throwing open the doors. He stopped his sprint on the railing. Harry had to reel back not to touch noses with him.

The pendant pulsed with some ancient magic Harry had never felt. Draco enclosed it in his hand like he wanted to suffocate it.

“You really know how to keep me once you’ve got me.”

Harry didn’t dare breathe. Was Draco speaking to him? When Draco glared at the pendant, he realized he had been speaking to Lucius.

“One life to live, indeed. But it’s not mine, is it? It’s yours. And your father’s. And his.”

He held it out, letting it dangle by the chain. For a moment, Harry thought he would drop it off the balcony.

 _Come on_ , Harry urged. _Do it. Make the decision for yourself._

Draco did not.

“What about adventures?” he asked, staring into the green light. “What about the tropics, and the desert, and the sea? What about my dreams?” His voice dropped low, pushing out white mist as he breathed, “What about Harry?”

Harry’s heart fluttered. He should just reach out and grab Draco by the robes, and tell him, _it’s okay! Come with me! I’ll take you wherever you want to go!_

“If I leave, I’ll be happy. But if I leave, your legacy will die. That means mine will die, too. Doesn’t it?” Draco went still, not breathing, eyes fearful. And then— “You’re proud of me again today after so, so long. I want to be proud of me, too.”

Draco lifted the necklace over his head, and the light grew brighter than ever, warm enough Harry could feel it. The warmth seemed to penetrate Draco. When the charm came to rest on his chest, a familiar expression washed over his face. Harry recognized it. He’d grown up with it. It was Malfoy pride.

To Harry, it was like kick in the gut.

 _I can’t compete with that_ , he realized. Even if Harry had wanted to _try_ , he couldn’t, because Draco had abruptly spun on his heel, and was gone.

\---

The train conductor shook his head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Mister Potter, there are no more runs today. You’ll have to fly or come back tomorrow.”

He picked up his clipboard and continued his inspection of the Hogwarts Express.

Harry fell onto a bench on the empty train platform. He’d been flying so long in the snow that his hands had frozen into the shape of his broom handle. The sun was low now, so he thought he’d find an inn and call it a day.

He hadn’t been able to escape Malfoy Manor fast enough. Not before he heard the orchestra start their romantic strumming, nor before peeked through the window to see Astoria take the aisle in all her beautiful, silken wonder, nor before he saw Draco standing handsomely next to his father, waiting to receive his destiny. Harry would gladly have flown across Britain ten times if it meant never having to think of that image again.

He felt the train conductor nearby.

“Are you sure there are no more trains today?” Harry pressed.

“There are at the rate I’m paying.”

Harry’s head snapped up.

He thought he was seeing a ghost.

But, no. Draco was standing there in his wedding robes like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“What are you doing here?” Harry stammered. “How did you know I’d...?”

Draco sat beside him, rearranging all the silk and wool around himself, and Harry smelled the ocean and the freshness and the coffee, and knew it was not a ghost, because ghosts didn’t have a smell. He wondered if he was simply dreaming.

“ _Am_ I dreaming?” he asked.

Draco smiled in a _there-there_ sort of fashion. “Well, I didn’t know you’d be _here_. I assumed I’d find you at Hogwarts, but I wasn’t about to fly all the way there like a dolt.”

“Why were you looking for me?”

“Funny story. My house-elf, Mippy, accosted me before the ceremony. She told me that a man with untidy hair and a broomstick had been looking for me, and she wanted to make sure I had received my message because my happiness depended on it.” Draco looked sideways at him. “Doesn’t take a mystery-solving Gryffindor to figure that one out.”

Harry was dumbstruck. All he could think to say was, “You never told me I shouldn’t bring a broomstick to your wedding.”

Draco threw his head back, laughing. Harry saw that his teeth were as white as his robes, but far more beautiful. And he was starting to feel very silly at the amount of sentiment he was exhibiting lately. “I never wanted you to have to be at my wedding,” Draco said.

The Hogwarts Express began to hoot. The conductor leaned out the side and shouted, “All aboard! Ten minutes to departure!”

It was a strange announcement, since they were the only two souls on the platform. They did not move.

“Did you go through with it?” Harry asked, unsure if he wanted to hear the answer.

Draco lifted his hand. “No ring, what do you think?”

Harry exhaled. Apparently, he’d been holding his breath. “And the Heredity Charm? What happened to that?”

“Why, Potter, were you spying on me?”

Harry took a moment to note the irony. Draco was not bothered. In fact, he looked flattered.

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry said. “I wanted to talk to you, like Mippy said. But I saw you with your dad. You looked so proud with him. I couldn’t bear the thought of taking that away from you.”

“I rather wish you had,” Draco said scratchily. “That way I wouldn’t have had to humiliate myself by walking out in the middle of the ceremony. Astoria had the gall to look pleased—well, she doesn’t know what she’s going to be missing—but Mum was crying and Weasley was barely containing his laughter. It was like the engagement party all over again. But thankfully no cake painted the walls, this time.”

“You’ve certainly got a dramatic flair. Why didn’t you leave as soon as you heard from Mippy?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I thought you were somewhere in the manor. I thought you were going to—I don’t know—charge in on the wedding like in one of those Muggle movies, and tell everyone you object to the marriage and you simply had to have me!”

Harry chuckled. He wanted to ask where he’d come across Muggle movies, but the story was not over.

“Then Astoria came down the aisle, and she was elegant and perfect, everything a wizard could want in a wife—if only I were the type of wizard who wanted a wife. Then the high warlock gave his advice, and spoke of vows, and asked if there were any objections to the union. There were none. That’s when I realized you weren’t coming, and I had to make a stand. When the warlock asked me to say _I do_ —well, I just didn’t. I apologized to my father and escaped out the back. It wasn’t as dramatic as all that.” He wrinkled his nose. “All right, yes it was.”

“I could tell how much it meant for you to please him,” Harry said gently.

“Well. Like you said, if he’s loyal to me, he’ll forgive me someday. If not...I’ll live. Happily, I hope.” Draco bit his lip, which was very distracting, until he exclaimed, “Did I tell you? After we parted ways that night in your classroom, I cast a Patronus in my chambers. It worked that time.”

“Yeah?” Harry asked, wondering where he was going with this.

“Yeah. It was him. My dad.” Draco touched his chest, where the Heredity Charm once hung. “At first, I took it as a sign that I should _definitely_ get married—you know, a Patronus being your guiding light and all that. Then I realized the form the Patronus took was my father from _before_ , when I was a child, back when he cared about me and my silly dreams more than all this legacy rot. That’s the Lucius Malfoy I want in my life. I’ll stand by until he comes around.”

They exchanged a bittersweet smile. “I’m sorry I couldn’t have helped you realize that before,” Harry said.

“Don’t be. It’s for the best. I got to be the hero in my own story. I don’t need Harry Potter saving me.” He flipped his hair in jest.

“Certainly not,” Harry said. He slid closer to Draco, drawing an arm up his back and around his shoulders, oddly hesitant considering what they’d been doing just last night. He felt so warm when Draco melted against him. “But perhaps you wouldn’t object to me saving you this once,” he suggested.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it seems you’re out of a job and a home, for the moment. Professor McGonagall has been praising us both on the progress the students have been making. I was thinking...what if I spoke to her about a co-professorship? I’ll take practical lessons and you take academic lessons. I just don’t have a handle on that bookwork stuff....”

“Well, I’ve been doing your job for free all semester. I may as well get paid for it.”

“Merlin,” Harry said lightly. “Dramatic _and_ full of himself. Quite a catch I’ve got here.”

The train let out a great puff of smoke. The conductor yelled at them pointedly this time: “All aboard! Hogsmeade bound!”

“I _am_ quite a catch,” Draco said, as they walked arm-in-arm. “And after what I’ve gone through to be with you, you’d better not throw me back anytime soon.”

 

**Epilogue**

 

JANUARY 2006

“Congratulations on having your baby at the right time. My mother caught a cold and had me early because of a forceful sneeze.”

Luna handed Hermione a bundle of multi-colored flowers, and they joined the Weasleys and Harry in the kitchen, where dinner was about to be served. Molly was just off rounding up George and little Fred.

“Perhaps you’d like me to check her cradle for spotted crabtrees,” Luna went on. “They can consume an adult human in sixteen hours during feeding season, you know.

“Erm, perhaps after dinner,” Hermione said, still a little pale and tired. “She’s only just fallen asleep.”

Luna nodded dreamily, and wandered to the far end of the kitchen, near Ginny. Harry looked down the long, decorated table, at peace. Though Ginny had avoided him the whole day, it was otherwise comforting to be among the people he considered family; all the Weasley siblings and their growing broods had come to greet Rose, bringing gifts and congratulations.

“I can’t get them out of George’s old room,” Molly said, plodding down the stairs. “Don’t know what they’re up to, but I won’t wait any longer.”

“That’s settled, then,” said Arthur, rising from his seat. “Shall we toast to the occasion?”

“Wait, dear, the champagne.”

Molly swished her wand, and a parade of wine glasses came dancing out of a cupboard. They were joined quickly by a couple large bottles, which sprayed open—to the giggling delight of Bill’s toddler, Victoire—and filled all the glasses to the rim.

“Can’t forget that!” Arthur took his glass, raising it above his head. “Congratulations to Ron and Hermione. I can't tell you how happy your mother and I are to have been made grandparents again, and to such a healthy, beautiful child. These are fortunate times we live in, and may that good fortune continue for you.”

“Cheers!” Molly said, and the whole family echoed, chiming glasses.

Harry set his glass to the side, and noticed Ginny eyeing him over the rim of hers.

As the serving plates began to float around, Percy added, “And let’s not forget Ron’s promotion at the Ministry. Bit unorthodox, though, Robards retiring so abruptly.”

“Let’s not worry about that part,” Molly gushed. “My own son is the youngest Head Auror in history!”

“Ron,” Harry said accusingly, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was right shocked, I guess. Plus, with the baby coming, it didn’t seem like the biggest news.”

“It’s huge news!” Harry punched him in the shoulder. “Congratulations.”

While everyone was chattering, Ron whispered to Harry. “I owe this job to you, you know? I don’t know what you said to Peter Philippa, but the other day he resigned his post and brought Robards down with him. That’s why he retired. Apparently the investigation on you was not Ministry sanctioned.” He stole a bun off the steaming basket that floated by, and ripped off a chunk with his teeth. “Shacklebolt came storming through the Auror offices when he heard, shouting about Robards wasting Ministry resources and undermining the Wizengamot ruling. He suspended Robards on the spot.”

"Can’t say I’m sad to hear it. Pass the potatoes.”

“So, what _did_ you say to Peter?” Ron asked. Hermione was interested now.

“I didn’t say all that much. But you might say I fought fire with fire.”

Ron threw his hands up. Hermione covered her mouth, but she could not hide her amusement.

“Relax,” Harry added. “I only burned his evidence. Mostly.”

“All right,” Ron said cautiously. “But, Harry, now that I’m Head Auror, I can’t look the other way all the time. OY, GEORGE!”

George and little Fred had appeared with a box of poorly concealed explosives.

“What did I say about pranks today?” Ron exclaimed, and jumped out of his seat. The three of them ran out the back door in a whirl of robes and laughter.

While the rest of the family was distracted by the ruckus, Hermione leaned towards Harry conspiratorially. “When are you going to tell me about this other person you’ve been seeing? It’s been over a month!”

Harry smiled, stabbing a fork into his buttery mashed potatoes. The last several weeks with Draco had been a blur of happy mornings and even happier evenings, punctuated with a bursting-at-the-seams sort of feeling Harry hadn’t experienced in years. But certainly none of it involved food this sumptuous—for Draco had stuck him on a vegetable and dry chicken regiment the moment he realized how soft Harry’s midsection was becoming.

"Come on, Harry," she prodded.

"I don’t think you’re ready to hear it. Or perhaps I’m not ready to say it."

"Probably the latter, because I have a hunch I already know what you’re going to say."

Harry reckoned his excuses this holiday season hadn’t been the most effective. He kept telling Ron and Hermione he was “researching teaching methods” with Draco. From Draco’s floo. Once Harry may have forgotten to put a shirt on.

"It was hard for me to believe, but the signs all pointed that way,” Hermione said. She looked over her shoulder; Ginny was distracted, arguing Quidditch tactics with Angelina. “I mean...the way your eyes lit up when Ron mentioned Malfoy’s sexuality, and the fuss you made at the wedding—not even coming inside in the end—and then Malfoy ditching the whole thing! That’s not even mentioning all the time you and he spend together now. You don’t have to say it out loud yet, but I want you to know I think nothing of it."

"Really,” Harry said, shocked and pleased. “Erm, thank you. I’m still wrapping my head around it myself."

“That’s settled, then!” Ron had come back sweaty and covered in soot. “What are you two on about?”

"Harry’s secret lover," Hermione whispered.

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “ _Hermione!_ ”

"You didn’t tell me you were seeing someone new,” Ron said, picking up his fork. “Who is she? Or...is it a she?”

"Honestly, Ron," Hermione said. "Isn’t it obvious? Harry’s the reason Malfoy walked out on his wedding."

“Her-mi-on-ee,” Harry repeated, more surprised at her gall than anything.

Ron gave Harry an odd, lingering stare. And then he hissed, " _Please_ tell me you’re getting up on Astoria Greengrass!”

Harry couldn’t help it. He met eyes with Hermione, and they exploded in laughter.

\---

Harry wanted to kiss Rose before he returned to Hogwarts. He climbed the stairs to Ron’s old room, but instead of a sleeping baby, he found Ginny. She was cradling an alert Rose in front of the window.

“Sorry,” Harry said, startled. “I’ll wait my turn.”

“Harry,” she croaked before he could leave. He stood uneasily on the threshold while she gathered herself. “Thank you for the broom. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Well, apart from my new niece.”

“It was nothing. My version of an apology.”

She offered Rose gingerly. “You want to hold her?”

Harry did. Still, he was no better at holding babies than when Teddy was born. Ginny guided him until he was comfortable with the head placement, and he bounced her gently. Rose stared at him with huge, brown eyes.

“She looks just like you,” he told Ginny.

“She should, Weasley blood runs strong. Even Angelina’s boy is turning up with freckles.”

They laughed a little. The film of discomfort seemed fade.

“I mean it,” Harry said softly. “I’m sorry.”

"For what?" she asked, stroking Rose on the cheek.

"For not being able to give you this."

Ginny’s eyes flicked up. For a moment, Harry thought she would cry, but she held true. "You’ve got nothing to apologize for. Except for the shouting. And the plate smashing. And the neglect. And the—”

“All right,” he said, breaking through her taunting smile. “I’m sorry for all that. But mainly for leading you on.”

She shook her head. "I think I led myself on more. I knew you were disinterested. I thought I could fix it. Now that I know I was wrong, it’s easier to move on, to focus on things I have control over.”

“That’s something I’m learning myself.”

“Then perhaps our marriage wasn’t a waste, after all.”

Rose had fallen asleep. Good timing, as the sun had just set on her first night on Earth. Harry and Ginny gazed at the red-purple sky until it was dark. The darkness didn’t last long. A single flare shot into the sky, exploding above the fields where Harry first learned about garden gnomes all those years ago. The explosion trickled down, at first just forming pretty shapes of pink and red, until a blocky script became clear.

 

WELCOME TO THE WEASLEYS, ROSE

 

George and little Fred danced under the fireworks, as the rest of the family applauded somewhere out of sight.

“That’s not so bad,” Harry commented. “Ron needn’t have worried.”

“Too innocent. Wait for it.”

There was another explosion of light, followed by more flashing letters.

 

YOUR DAD’S THE UGLY ONE  
HA! HA!  
HA!  
HA! HA!

 

Harry grinned. “Funny, you can’t tell if that addition was from George or his son.”

Ginny did not respond for a long time. When she did, she seemed uncomfortable.

“I heard you were dating Draco Malfoy.”

“Erm,” Harry said, suddenly searching for a place to put the baby. “I’ve got to shut Hermione up.”

“Don’t flip your lid.” She eased Rose out of his arms and laid her in the crib. “I actually heard from a friend, who saw you two in Hogsmeade the other day.”

“I suppose you think I’ve gone off the deep end.”

“No, my concern is more self-absorbed than that. I’m worried about what that says about me.”

Harry watched Ginny tug on her braid, something she always did when she was feeling insecure.

He walked over and put his arm around her. “It says I need a bit of mischief in my life, and you’re far too sweet for the likes of me.”

She rolled her eyes, but accepted the affection. “Good answer.”

\---

Harry found the building with ease. It was the same as he remembered it, with the cafe on the bottom and the bookstore on top. The owner was outside, wiping tables. She was a Muggle, and took no notice of them walking by, since they didn’t really want her to.

"It’s across the street," Harry said. "Merlin, I’ve missed this smell. They have the best baguettes."

"Don’t even think about it. I’ve worked hard getting you trim and fit, and I want to be able to lie on the beach and admire your abs before you ruin it." Draco lifted his sunglasses, ogling the bakery. "You did this wandless?" he asked, a hint impressed.

 _This_ was the char that still clung to some of the higher bricks. It was the remnants of burned chairs that were piled in the alleyway, and the dust-encrusted windows, half boarded. It looked like someone had started to clean, but had given up long ago.

"But I called ahead," Harry lamented, seeing the state of the place. "The girl said the bakery was still in business."

"Look, here." Draco read a sign on the door. " _Front of house closed for renovations. For deliveries, please call_ —"

"I’m going to check the other side. Be right back."

There was second entrance down the alleyway, blocked by a door made of wrought iron bars. Through it, Harry saw a hulking man in a tiny office. He practically filled the whole space with his massive upper body and arms. He was hunched over a calculator, rapidly mashing buttons with a pencil.

Harry knocked, but the man didn’t jump. He looked up slowly, and arched an eyebrow, like he’d been expecting someone else. He started to point towards the front door.

“I saw the sign,” Harry interjected. “I wanted to talk to you in person. It’s important.”

“Oh?” the man asked gruffly.

It was the first time he’d heard the baker’s voice. Harry had always spoken with his daughter.

As the baker held open the door, Harry was stricken by the shiny brown scars engulfing his arms. They snaked under the shoulder of his white shirt, and onto his neck and half his face. For the first time, Harry noticed the baker’s less than dexterous movements, restricted by the tautness of his new skin.

He wanted to run away.

He steeled himself and handed the baker an envelope. “This is for you. Don’t open it now. Wait till I leave.”

The baker poked his tongue out to touch a non-existent moustache. Harry noticed that for the first time, too. The scarring covered part of his lip, and hair no longer grew there.

“I was there on the day of the fire,” Harry said. “I wanted to help, but I couldn’t. I felt like I should have been able to.”

The baker shook his head. “If this is money, lad, there’s no need for you to—”

“I used to frequent your bakery. Your daughter was kind and attentive to me, and at a time when I very much needed it. I was heartbroken to see how the two of you suffered that day. No amount of money will make up for what you’ve suffered, but it would mean something to me if you’d let me help.”

Only Harry heard the whole statement: _If you’d let me help make things_ _even_ _._

“No,” the baker said forcefully. “It’s not for you to—”

“You have to take it,” Harry said, more harshly than he meant to. “I know you’re an honest man. You don’t have to feel bad about it. I used to see you hard at work every single day, and I know you’ll put it to better use than me. Really. I have no use for it.”

Agonizingly, the baker nodded.

“Don’t open it now,” Harry said. “I don’t want you giving it back.”

“What, how much—?”

Harry was already out the door. The sight of the man, what Harry had done to him, was making his guts churn.

He was halfway down the alley when the baker shouted behind him.

“Oy! What’s your name, lad?”

“It’s Harry.”

When the baker smiled, his whole plump face drew up tight. “Harry, thank you. I can’t offer much in return, but there’s a dozen scones in it for you next time.”

“My favorite,” he said, and waved.

When Harry found Draco, he had accosted two teen girls and was interrogating them about their mobile devices.

“And these _eye-phones_ ,” he said, standing unnaturally close to one girl. “They’re just like the fireplace, except you can carry them in your pocket? And what do they have to do with _eyes_?”

“I can’t tell if he’s joking,” the girl whispered to her friend.

“Come along,” Harry said, taking Draco by the arm, “it’s time for your meds, cousin.”

The girls exchanged a perturbed look, and hurried away.

“Very funny,” Draco said. “I’m just immersing myself in Muggle culture. I want to understand the whole scope of what it’s like to be a disadvantaged being.”

“Ignoring what an insensitive prat you are, you can learn about other cultures this summer, when we’re in Australia and New Zealand. Until then, I’d like to go back to Hogwarts and put all this behind me.”

Harry frowned at the bakery. He knew he’d never come back.

At that moment, a familiar face rounded the street corner—the baker’s daughter. A glint of recognition shone in her eye, but she held a brown bag close to her chest and went into the bakery without a word.

“How much did you give them?” Draco wondered.

“Everything I had.”

Draco reached out, alarmed. “Pardon me? That’s rather extreme.”

“What I did was extreme. I’d give them more if I had it.”

Draco got that sultry look in his eye, and took Harry’s hand. “Fine. Let’s go home. You’ve done your good deed, and now I want to reward you.”

“Can I pick the reward?” Harry asked, pulling him close.

“No, I’m going to choose. And what I choose...will make you beg for more.”

“That sounds nice.” Harry ran his fingertips along the band of skin between  
Draco’s jeans and his shirt. Draco shivered as Harry said, “But I thought you liked me telling _you_ what to do.”

“I like to let you _think_ you’re telling me what to do, but I’m really the brains of this operation.”

“Now, there’s the cocky Draco Malfoy I love. Thought you were getting soft on me for a while.”

Harry leaned in for a kiss, but Draco put a hand on his chest. “You love me?”

Harry didn’t realize what he’d said until Draco reacted. He couldn’t read those steely eyes. He didn’t know what Draco wanted from him to say. But if Harry had learned anything this year, it was the value of being honest with oneself and others. He cleared his throat, and said, “Yeah. I love you.”

There it was: the bite of that lip, followed by a wide, hesitant smile. Then Draco simply kissed him. Harry didn’t think words could compare.

\---

In a little bakery in London, a girl set down her groceries. Times had been tough since the fire. Her father was in dispute with the insurance company, and had to sell their home to keep his lifelong business afloat, taking her to live in the bakery’s loft until things turned around. She hoped a home-cooked meal would lift his spirits.

Her dad emerged from the office behind the kitchen. He was white as a ghost. The scars were pinky-brown against this pallor.

“Daddy?”

“He gave me this.”

“What?”

Dad held out a piece of paper. “He gave me this, and just walked away.”

She took the paper. Her heart skipped a beat. It was a cheque.

“Dad, this is—what is this?”

“It is more than enough,” he started. He began to laugh. “ _It is far more than enough!_ ”

The story never made sense to her. Dad tried telling her—after all the hugging, and joyous screaming, and the tears of relief—but it didn’t add up.

There was a man she used to slip extra sweets to. He’d always looked sad, lost, and maybe a little pissed, if she were honest. She had just wanted to cheer him up. The man had come in, apologized, and given her father a monstrous sum of money.

 _Why?_ she asked.

But Dad didn’t want to analyze it. He was sweet and simple like that. And she hadn’t seen such hope in his eyes since he’d pulled his first warm bread out of the oven when she was four.

So, she went along with it.

When asked how they came across the money to rebuild and start a chain of bakeries, they would shrug, and say, “A kind man.”

When asked who this man was, they admitted not knowing his full name.

They just called him Harry.

\---

 

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